Anniversary Waltz
by truhekili
Summary: Prequel to "Almost Home." Begins a year after the Season Five finale. What happens to Alex/Izzie's marriage. Two-shot. Complete. Two chapters. All characters belong to ABC; no profit is made from this story.
1. Chapter 1

Standard disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

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Flowers and candy weren't his style, but she never expected a map. Not that it would help much. If they took a wrong turn, they'd be lost until the fall harvest, amid acres of corn. Folding the paper clumsily, she pawed through her bag for her hair brush and lip gloss. Mothers loved her, she reminded herself again, as she took another deep breath.

"She doesn't know," Alex said a few minutes later, so quietly she almost didn't hear him. "Doesn't know what?" Izzie asked, distracted as she sized up the grain silos and the farm houses dotting the edge of town. "My mom-," he stammered. "She doesn't know I'm coming?" Izzie asked incredulously, her head snapping around to look at him. "No," he said quickly, "she doesn't know that we're…" "Doesn't know what?" Izzie prodded.

"Married," he admitted reluctantly. "How could she not know that?" Izzie demanded, staring at him dumb founded. "She thinks you're my…" he stalled. "Your what?" "Girl friend," he filled in ruefully. "You lied to her?" Izzie asked. "No," he snapped, "I just, I wanted to give her-"

"What else does she think?" Izzie huffed. "That I'm an actress? Or a model?" "She knows you're a doctor," Alex retorted, rolling his eyes. "Where does she think we've been this past year?" Izzie pressed sarcastically, "or haven't we been dating that long?"

"Not really," he acknowledged, "she doesn't know about… about…""She doesn't know I was sick," Izzie whispered , glaring at him as he nodded, his eyes glued to the road.

"Were you planning on filling her in anytime soon," Izzie asked, "or are we just going to-" "I'll tell her," he insisted, "I just wanted to-" "To what," she taunted, "get her approval? Is this a test?" "No, damn it," he sputtered. "I can't believe this," she muttered, shaking her head. "We're almost there," he noted, warily scanning the road signs as the small town came into view. "Are you sure" Izzie smirked, "she might have moved and not told you. The not speaking thing seems to run in your family."

"Iz," he grumbled, "can we not fight about that again now." "Fine," she retorted, folding her arms over her chest, "it's not like we have anything to talk about anyway," she added sarcastically, "since we're barely dating and all." "Iz," he protested, pulling up slowly to a squat, red brick four square at the end of a long five house block. Curious despite her anger, Izzie studied the tangle of wild flowers along the base of the worn wooden steps, and the lacy curtains hanging in the front windows.

Closing the car door, she pulled her arm away from him as he tried leading her to the front porch, then watched Alex swallow nervously before knocking on the heavy oak door. She wondered what exactly his poor mother was expecting, and how little he actually told her; she should have expected as much from him, she reminded herself, jiggling her leg as she surveyed the faded grey picket fence ringing the house.

"Alex!" she heard, when the door finally creaked opened, and his mother embraced him as he bent stiffly forward. "Mom," he said breathlessly, "this is Izzie, Isobel-" "Stevens," Izzie filled in warmly, offering her hand only to be pulled into another enthusiastic hug. "Oh, I'm so happy to meet you dear," the stocky brunette woman said finally, "Alex has told me so much about you." "Really," Izzie said, eying Alex suspiciously.

"Oh yes, yes, but my," she stood back, "he didn't tell me how pretty you are." Izzie chuckled, almost blushing. "I'm Annavey Karev," she said softly, "my friends call me Anna." "Annavey is a lovely name," Izzie said, "is it-" "It's Russian," she said, ushering them in to a living room crowded with over-stuffed floral couches, with newspapers and magazines and throw pillows, and covered in wall to wall pictures.

"My husband, Anton," she noted, motioning proudly to a framed photo of a man in front of a band, "he said it was a good omen, that our first names started with the same letter." "Really," Izzie said, scanning the picture, "is that him?" Anna adjusted her glasses and followed Izzie's finger. "Yes," she smiled broadly, "that's my Anton."

"He was a great musician," she added proudly, "that's him on stage," she noted, pointing to another nearby picture, a faded, grainy photo snapped in a darkened bar. "Alex told me," Izzie smiled, "I'm sure he was very talented." "Oh, he was," Anna nodded, gazing back at the wall, "he would have been famous, if he'd only gotten one good break."

"I'll bet," Izzie agreed. "Would you like tea, dear?" Anna asked, pulling her attention back, "Alex told me you drink tea." "He did, huh?" Izzie smirked. "Oh, yes," she nodded, "and he tells me you're quite the baker." "I love to bake," Izzie agreed, following her and Alex into the kitchen. "Mom," Alex interrupted impatiently, "I told you-"

"Oh, come on," she said, "I won't embarrass you." "I know," he said, "but-" "But nothing," she said, "dinner's almost ready, anyway." "You didn't have to do that," Izzie said, shaking her head, "we could just-" "Don't be silly," she objected, moving toward her stove, "how often do I get to cook for my son and his beautiful girl friend?" Alex cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly on his feet as Izzie glared at him. "Besides, I bet Isobel's never had a good Iowa stew." "I haven't," Izzie agreed, "I'd love to try it."

Three hours later, they sat in the small living room, listening as Anna filled in the details of her prized photos. "He was a fine musician, your father, wasn't he Alex?" she asked eagerly. "Yeah, mom," Alex said, picking at his fingers as he pursed his lips. "He was a good man," she sighed, "if only he'd gotten that one great job, you know, the one that would have made him a success. He so wanted that."

"Mom," Alex interrupted, "it's getting late. We've had a long trip." "Of course" she said, rising from her chair, "what was I thinking? Come on, Isobel, I'll show you to your room. I have four bedrooms here, you know. I thought you'd like the one next to mine. Alex said you love pink." "He did?" Izzie asked, eying him curiously. "Yes, it's all made up for you," she added. "And Alex, I put your old quilt on your bed, you know the one with the army tanks." "Mom," he groaned, shaking his head as Izzie giggled.

An hour later, Izzie poked her head cautiously into the small hall bathroom, where Alex had just finished brushing his teeth. "Separate rooms," she commented, "nice touch." "Iz," he began impatiently, "I just wanted-" "No, no, I get it," she taunted, "you don't want her to think I'm a slut." "Iz-" "Or no," she snorted, "I know," she said, "you want her to think that you're some kind of boy scout. I guess there's a lot you don't tell her," she taunted. "Iz-" "Or maybe you want her to think that you're saving yourself until marriage." "Iz-" he protested, piling his towel haphazardly on the drying rack.

"I can't believe you're doing this," she hissed, "I can't believe you want me to lie to that sweet woman." "I told you," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "We'll tell her eventually, I just want to-" "And how do you think she'll feel," Izzie demanded. "that her daughter-in-law lied to her right from the start?" He stared at the faded floor, a tint of red beginning to burn his ears.

"You never thought about that, did you?" Izzie snapped. "You never thought about what we'd tell her later." He moved furiously, rinsing out his glass and zipping his travel case shut. "Do you ever think beyond the next ten minutes, Alex?" she demanded. "Or is it always just what's easiest right now?" "It's not that," he stammered, walking into the darkened hallway. "That's exactly what it is," she retorted, closing the door behind her as he stood frozen in the hall.

"Alex," Anna said, groggily opening her bedroom door, "is everything okay?" "Yeah, mom," he said. "I was just locking up." Anna smiled, taking his hand. "You used to do that every night, remember," she said quietly, "after your father left." "Everything's fine, mom," he repeated, kissing her lightly on the top of her head, "the house is all locked up. Go back to sleep."

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Izzie woke much later than usual the next morning, to the sound of hammering, and wandered into the sweet smelling kitchen a half hour later. "Good morning," Anna said warmly, "would you like to have something, dear?" "Just tea," Izzie said, smiling as she moved to get a mug. "Alex says you usually have toast in the morning," Anna noted, motioning to a loaf of freshly baked bread cooling on the counter.

"You make your own bread?" Izzie asked, wide eyed. "On special occasions," Anna laughed, gathering two plates and some jam. "Alex is replacing a few boards on that old porch," she added, "if you were wondering what that racket was. I'd rather he waited," she said, "but once he gets his mind to something-" "I know," Izzie agreed wryly as she took a plate and a knife and sat at the table.

"You'll have to watch that, with him," Anna cautioned, lowering her voice. "Excuse me," Izzie asked, while spreading jam on her bread. "He really seems to like you," she added, studying Izzie closely, "I can certainly see why," she continued, smiling broadly, "he always went for the pretty ones." "Actually," Izzie said with a laugh, "he doesn't tell me I'm pretty very often." "Of course," she added ruefully, "he doesn't tell me much of anything." "That's my Alex," Anna nodded, gazing out the window where he worked.

"He's pretty handy around the house," Anna noted. "I know," Izzie nodded, "he's done a lot of work on the… on his apartment." Anna smiled, adding more sugar to her tea. "He worked in a hardware store when he was in school, did odd jobs to earn extra money, that sort of thing." "Really?" Izzie asked.

"He wasn't much of a mechanic," Anna said. "But Mr. Gregson, he owns the hardware store, he said Alex might make a good carpenter someday," she added proudly. "I could see that," Izzie nodded. "This," she added, savoring the warm bread, "is fabulous."

"Thank you," Anna smiled. "I never did understand why people went so much for the store bought. So expensive," she noted, sipping her tea, "and not nearly as good." "I agree," Izzie nodded, smiling warmly. "Don't suppose you have much time for baking, though," Anna added, "with all your studies. Alex says you're a fine doctor." "It's a lot of work," Izzie admitted. "Even getting the time off to come here wasn't easy."

"I imagine," Anna nodded, rising to refill their mugs, as the hammering gave way to a few mysterious thuds and an ominous cracking. "Alex always liked to keep busy," Anna laughed, "think that's why he liked the hardware store, spent hours there, even when he wasn't working." "Did he have a lot of friends there?" Izzie asked, stirring her tea.

"I think Mr. Gregson was being nice," Anna replied, "letting him hang around. He always told me we were lucky his father never pressed charges." "Charges?" Izzie asked, her attention drawn back from the sunny, cheerful white kitchen, complete with an actual pie safe, she noticed, and a small flock of rooster cookie jars. "I don't suppose he told you about that either?" Anna asked warily. "He never would talk about it with me."

"About what?" Izzie asked. "They never did get along, such tempers. You'll have to watch that with him," she cautioned again, meeting Izzie's curious expression. "I love my son," she insisted, "but that temper gets the best of him sometimes." "Did something happen?" Izzie asked "He never told you?" Anna asked hesitantly. "No," izzie admitted.

"My Anton was a good man," she noted reluctantly. "He had a certain way to do things, and he tried to teach Alex that, you know, to teach him right from wrong." Izzie nodded. "They had a fight one night, a terrible fight. My Anton was in the hospital for quite a few days," she added, "when he got out - he didn't even tell me when or I would have taken him home, taken care of him - he just left."

"I knew Alex hadn't seen his dad in a long time," Izzie acknowledged, "but I never knew why." "Mr. Gregson said it was just Anton being embarrassed, you know. Alex was only sixteen, seventeen, at the time. We were lucky it didn't make it into the news papers. Of course, a fair number of people in town knew anyway. This is a small place." Izzie nodded, watching as she refilled her tea mug.

"It was all that damn wrestling," Anna added impatiently, setting the kettle back on the stove. "Never did care for it. Made him mean, I think, angry. He wasn't like that until he started all that weight training," she insisted. "But it got him that scholarship to the university," she smiled. "I don't suppose you went to school on a wrestling scholarship?"

"No," Izzie laughed. "I was a model, actually." "Really," Anna said, "well you're certainly pretty enough. You were in catalogues?" "Yes," Izzie said cautiously, almost cringing. "Like in the Sears catalogues?" she asked, smiling broadly. "Yes," Izzie agreed eagerly, returning her smile, "just like that." "Funny," Anna shook her head, "Alex never really went for the sweet ones." "I'm sure," Izzie muttered, under her breath."

"He must like you as much as it sounds," Anna said, watching as Izzie blushed. "He's a good boy," she added, nodding firmly, "I could never have kept this place without him, after his father left. It was a struggle," she noted softly. "It must have been very difficult," Izzie agreed, fingering her tea mug. "He needs someone like you, I think," Anna added, gazing fondly at Izzie, "but that temper of his…" she warned, shaking her head.

"Did you come here to work or to visit me?" Anna asked suddenly, as Alex popped into the kitchen with hammer in tow. "Both," he smirked, moving to rinse off his hands. "I'll take care of that gutter spout tomorrow," he added, wiping his hands as he surveyed the counter and table top. "It's in the refrigerator," she chuckled as his eyes lit up, watching as he drew out the banana cream pie and eagerly grabbed a plate.

"Why don't you show Isobel around town while I'm at church?" Anna asked, watching him fondly. "What's to see?" he shrugged, avoiding Izzie's gaze. "I'd like that," Izzie insisted, glaring at him as he stared at the pie he was devouring.

"Not much to see," he repeated two hours later, shrugging as they drove around a quiet town too poor to be quaint, too suburban to be rural, too much or too little of anything in particular to make it anything special. "We had an interesting conversation this morning," she commented, "your mom and I."

Alex held his breath as he drove, eying her silently. "She's quite the story teller," Izzie pointed out, as the words hung awkwardly between them. "Guess the not talking thing doesn't run in your family," she added tartly, "it's just you."

The stories continued that evening, as Anna told Izzie about her husband's early days as a musician. "Mom," Alex interrupted, "I don't think she's interested in-" "Oh, why not?" Anna asked mischievously, "she might be part of the family some day, if you brought her all the way to see me." Izzie giggled, happy to see him squirm. "Wow," Izzie noted, looking closer at the faded photos, "he played a lot of instruments."

"Yes," Anna nodded, gazing at the picture. "I think Alex has that guitar now," she said, looking to him for confirmation. "Yeah," he said. "He never plays it," Izzie noted. "His father never could get him to practice," Anna chuckled. "It's getting late mom," Alex interrupted, motioning impatiently to the clock by her chair.

Six hours later, he was out on the porch, tinkering quietly with the gutter fastening, when Izzie stepped out the back door into the warm breeze. "It's two in the morning," she said, baffled, "what are you doing?" "Want to get this fixed before we leave," he shrugged, without looking up. "How can you even see?" she asked, sitting on the top porch step. "Moon's up," he muttered. She scanned the sky, noticing that despite the lack of street lights, the yard was still fairly well illumined; even his flashlight sat unused.

"What are you doing up so late?" he asked finally. "I'm dating, remember," she said tartly, ignoring his glare. "Your mom told me about your dad," she said quietly. "Yeah," Alex snorted, "the whole damn night." "Not that," Izzie shook her head, "about the fight." "What?" he demanded, his head snapping back up. "She told me you put him in the hospital," Izzie said, shaking her head. Alex ignored her, returning to his work.

"What happened?" she asked, watching as he struggled to get the pipe fittings together. "Alex," she repeated, "what-" "What, Iz?" he demanded, roughly popping the fittings into place. "I think you should tell me what happened," she insisted. "I thought you had a date?" he smirked, grabbing his tools and turning toward the house.

"Great," she taunted, "that's right, run away." "What do you want?" he snapped, stopping abruptly beside her as he picked up his flashlight. "She said-". "Did she tell you he beat the crap out of her?" he hissed. "What?" Izzie asked. "Did she tell you about the drugs and the booze, and how he'd come home and…" "And what?" she asked cautiously.

"He had it coming," Alex sneered, avoiding her bewildered look. "I couldn't watch it anymore, and she wouldn't do anything, she wouldn't leave, so I did something." "But you mother said-" "She says a lot of things," he snapped bitterly, pounding his flashlight angrily into his hand. "Sounds like she loves him," Izzie protested. "She thought he'd get better," Alex retorted incredulously, "she thought the bastard would-" "Why don't you say something to her?" she asked. "The way she talks, it's like he'll be back any day now."

Alex eyed her warily, remembering the pill bottles and the endless rosaries, the blank staring and the mumbling to people who weren't there, the roiling madness that coursed through the small house, after his father left. "She never forgave me," he said finally, "she thought she could make him better. Those pictures, that's her whole life,"

"Is he still alive?" Izzie asked. "I don't know," he said, moving toward the house. "So what if he comes back," she asked, "you going to keep lying to her, helping her think he's better than he was?" "I'll take care of her," he said, climbing the steps. "Like you did before?" she asked sharply. "You mean will I screw it up again?" he demanded, turning abruptly toward her. "I mean will you ever stop lying to her?" Izzie asked.

Alex glared at her, forcing his arms down to his sides. He'd lied plenty, about the bruises and the bottles, about the black eyes and the bones that broke too easily, and his mother's pills, which always vanished too quickly. He'd lied enough to get the cops to leave, and his mother damn near killed. That was lying; he'd never do that again; this was different.

"I'm not lying," he hissed through gritted teeth, griping her arm as he signaled her to keep her voice down. "I'm letting her believe she had more than did, more like what she deserved." "Alex-" she interrupted, squirming in his grasp and shaking her head as she tried to pull away. He turned from her abruptly, dropping her arm and forcing himself to concentrate on a nearby fence post that needed straightening, on anything that might slow the frantic pounding in his head.

His mother never lied, he remembered; lying was on the sin list; it even made the top five. She always told the curious neighbors they were accidents, and the cops everything was fine; she always promised him it would get better, and that his father loved them, until words lost their meaning. The problem had to be the words, since his mother wouldn't lie for anybody, not even for the God who ignored her prayers.

"I'm protecting her," he hissed, more harshly then he intended. "I 'm keeping her from going back to the pills, and whatever the hell else she used to survive. She's fine, Iz. She's not in a padded cell, she's not a drunk…" "That's fine?" Izzie asked. "It works," he insisted. "She thinks I'm your girlfriend, is that working?" she asked sarcastically.

Izzie watched him warily, waiting a long while before softening her tone. "Why can't we at least tell her about us?" she asked finally. "Wouldn't that be good? I think she likes me." "She loves you," he said, exhaling quietly, "just like I knew she would." "Well if you knew that," she said, "why didn't you just tell her about us from the beginning?"

"She already thinks I'm a screw up," he said finally. "If I, if we, if this hadn't worked," he stammered, motioning vaguely between them, "if you'd changed your mind after you got better, she'd just think I screwed up again." "You thought I'd change my mind," she asked incredulously, "and you never talked to me about it?" "I just thought if you, if you…" he stammered." "Lived?" she filled in quietly.

He looked away. "I thought you might want something else," he admitted, after a long, awkward silence. "You mean, like a husband who could actually talk to me like an adult?" she asked sharply. "Or tell the truth about his marriage? Yeah, that'd be nice," she agreed, stalking past him up the steps and opening the door. "That'd be real nice," she repeated. "Too bad for me, huh?" she muttered, closing the door behind her.

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Alex jolted awake, slamming his alarm clock off and searching his hands. Finding no torn shards of fabric, he dropped back onto the bed. She'd been running again, at dawn, through a sunny field of wild flowers as he chased frantically behind, her white robe unraveling as it caught in his fingers and she charged heedlessly over the grassy hill and out of sight. The chill clung to him as her laughter faded away with the dream.

"Morning," she said as she emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later. He noticed the shabby robe wrapped snugly around her, and chided himself again, for giving her a new white lab coat, instead, for their second anniversary. It seemed practical, after she chose to leave the surgical program, and pursue a family practice residency instead. She'd been less then enthused with his gift, though; he should have known better.

"Hey," he said briskly, toweling his hair dry fifteen minutes later, "you're meeting your new group today, right?" "Yup," she said, vigorously brushing her hair, "the new dream team." He pulled on his shirt, watching her warily. She'd had dreams in the hospital that were more like his, drug induced terrors that left her frantic and shaking, and calling out other names then his, and clawing his arms, her nails never quite drawing visible blood.

But he knew she had different dreams before those, of a brilliant surgical career, and a fairy tale wedding, and a castle in the clouds, and children – always children. But even her fairy tale wedding had been borrowed, acquired second hand from a friend, and no one would ever mistake their crappy apartment for a castle, and they'd never be able to afford kids with medical bills still pouring in and school loans to pay.

"You want to ride in together?" he asked briskly, taking her curt nod for agreement. It was inconvenient, he knew, since they were working different shifts now, but it saved them money. He'd done what he could their past few breaks, to stay ahead of the rent, tending bar at Joe's amid the good natured ribbing from their friends.

He'd been poor his whole life, enough to know that work was work and money was money, and even bar wages could help keep the water running and the electricity on. His father had been too proud for that, he remembered, even when they went weeks with no heat, and his mother wore two heavy coats in the living room, commenting only on the bitter cold Iowa winters - her breath visible in the chilled air- but never on her useless husband.

"You working with Teegan today?" he asked, walking up behind Izzie and closing his arms around her, nuzzling her hair. It was darker and straighter now, but still smelled like spring, like it always had before. "Yeah," she said, shifting away from him, "you ready to go?" "You sure you're ready for a full day?" he frowned, "it's only been-"

"Over a year?" she snapped impatiently, grabbing her bag and slinging it brusquely over her shoulder, as she pulled her coat from the chair. "Iz-" "I've already been over this with Bailey, and the Chief, and the-" she recited the familiar list. "I just-" he started. "And yes," she insisted, holding up her bag, "I've got my hat, and my sunscreen, for the whole two minutes it'll take me to walk from the parking lot. Or were you planning on dropping me off at the ambulance bay?"

"Iz, I just-" "And stay away from Teegan," she demanded sternly. "What?" he asked. "I know you talked to him," she accused. "He told me we could adjust my schedule if I needed more time," she added sarcastically. "Iz, I just-" "I know," she snorted, "you're afraid I'll get a head cold, or won't be able to keep up with the other residents." "I just thought-" "No, you didn't," she retorted, "you never do." "That's not true," he objected. "Did you ever think they may have enough doubts about me already?" she retorted. "They do not," he scoffed, "everybody wants you back."

"They don't even know me yet, remember?" she pointed out, "I'm in a new program now." "You'll do great," he insisted. "And the last thing I need is you going behind my back." "I just-" he protested. "You just can't let me make my own decisions," she accused. "I just wanted to make sure-" he muttered. "What," she demanded, "that your helpless little wife was-" "Iz-" "I mean it, Alex," she insisted, "butt the hell out. And just so we're clear," she repeated through gritted teeth, "this is my decision, not yours."

Her angry words hung between them, her tone echoing that they'd had this fight before. "Are you ready?" she demanded again, turning away from him. "Just have to brush my teeth," he mumbled, wandering back into the bathroom. She was strong, he reminded himself. She didn't need him like his father did, to empty the bottles, or sweep up the shattered glass, or lie about what happened; she didn't need him like his mother did either, to count out the pills for her when the bad patches started, or to hide the bottles when they became intolerable, or even like Ava had, before she slit her wrists.

She had to be strong, to fight her way back from the cancer - after the year of grueling treatments that she'd told him more than once she didn't want - and to charge ahead as if nothing had happened. He knew he could never have done otherwise, but he wondered, sometimes, if she'd ever forgive him for refusing to let her go, even when she begged.

He wondered, but he was sure, usually, that she'd needed him a year ago, if only to push her, if only to sit uselessly in the hard plastic chair at her bedside. But her bad patch was behind her, he reminded himself, as he returned his toothbrush to its slot and hastily dried his face. Moving toward the door, he noticed her white robe hung haphazardly on the back hook, and straightened it automatically as he brushed his fingers across the fabric, noting a few loose threads, and the fraying along the pockets.

He probably should have gotten her something like that instead, he thought, though he hated when she wore it to bed; she'd needed him more last year, too, to feed her beast, when she returned from the hospital. But that too had passed after her last two surgeries, when she winced even over long healed scars, pulling away from his touch. At least she still needed a ride, he remembered, grabbing his jacket as he turned out the light.

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Izzie woke early the next morning, rolling her eyes as she moved out from under Alex's grasp, trying not to wake him. She'd already given up on candy and flowers, but how he'd come up with a lab coat as an appropriate anniversary gift escaped her. At least she'd tried, she thought angrily, spying the silk pajamas she got him, spilling out of their box on the dresser across the room, with the tags still on them.

She knew he was no romantic, but anyone with half a brain should see that family practice was a consolation prize, offered to the pathetic cancer survivor who was too far behind the rock stars on the surgical track, and too tired to catch up, and too deep in debt to start over, her medical bills wiping out all the money her model body had earned her and then some, when she'd still had a body worth looking at.

Surveying their cramped bedroom, she remembered that she'd promised her chemo buddy, Jen, that she'd make the best of any second chance she got. Jen had run out of second chances, but Izzie wondered if she could keep her own promise, amid bills and medical appointments and work schedules, and a husband who apparently thought that a bright white reminder of how far behind she'd fallen was a good idea of a gift.

"Hey," he said breathlessly, twenty minutes later, flashing a grin as she climbed out of the shower, and kissing her quickly as he entered, while she pulled a huge towel hastily around her. She cursed herself for forgetting to lock the door, since the bathroom was too small for two people, and the lighting was harsh, and he always left the door open, which let all the steam escape, defogging the mirror.

Pulling her robe from its hook, she caught a quick glimpse before she fastened it tightly around her, frowning at the scars that would never disappear, and the circles that still tinged her eyes, before she could conceal them. "You're not running today?" she called to him, over the rushing water. She wondered how he did that, despite his eighty hour work weeks, but it let her drive in alone, and gave her a few minutes to herself before the onslaught of new colleagues and program guidelines and procedures.

"Too late," he responded, stepping out of the shower and toweling his hair. "I figured I'd just ride in with you." "Right" she muttered. "You know – since it's your first week." "I know my way around the hospital" she snapped. "It's not like I'm some green intern." She supposed he thought they'd save money, too, even if they didn't finish their shifts at the same time. Not that he'd think that far ahead, she reminded herself, since that was at least eight hours into the future.

"You talk to Mere?" he asked, hastily dressing and grabbing his bag as they left. "About what?" she asked. "Our forms are due, for specialty selection, and-" "Your forms are due," she retorted, "we're on a different schedule, remember? So Mere's going neuro, Cristina's going cardio, you're going plastics, and I'm going flu shots and splinters."

He eyed her curiously as she avoided his gaze. "You don't sound very excited about it," he pointed out. "If you talked to the Chief, or to Bailey, I'm sure they'd let you re-enter-" "You mean start over," she replied, "and be two years behind." "Yeah," he admitted, "it'd be tough, but if you want-" "I told you, I want to do family practice," she insisted, shaking her head. "Okay," he shrugged, "but usually you're more excited about-"

"I'm what?" she challenged, as they piled into his battered jeep, "a freaking cheerleader? "Iz," he said, "I meant you're usually more – " "I'm excited, okay?" she said, forcing a smile. ""I get to work with kids. I'll get to spend more time in the clinic. It'll be great." "I just thought," he said hesitantly, "that you might-""I'm not," she snapped. "And you should be happy anyway," she added tartly. "My residency will be shorter. I'll make more money sooner-" "Iz…" he interrupted. "What," she said, "that's the problem, right? If we ever want to think about kids, we'll have to get out from under all these bills first. Isn't that what you're always saying?"

Alex blanched, gripping the steering wheel more tightly as he watched the road intently. He probably had said something like that, anything to put off the kid discussion until she was clear of…" It's not like we have forever," she interrupted his thoughts, "the embryos won't be viable indefinitely. If we're going to do this sometime – oh, I don't know, in the next ten years or so," she huffed, rolling her eyes.

"I just want to be sure we're ready," he protested, " you know, have a house, and steady schedules, and-" "Right," she snorted, gathering her things as he pulled into a parking spot. "You mean when you're ready" she retorted, popping out of the car and slamming the door shut. She had no reason to wait for him, since they went in separate directions anyway, him with their friends, the rock stars, her with the also rans. She could almost see Cristina smirking, at Barbie on the ultimate mommy track, without even being a mother. At least, not yet, she reminded herself; not yet, but soon.

Later that evening, she dropped into bed by seven pm, aching and groggy, reminding herself that it had been over a year since she'd worked anything close to even eight hours straight, a full shift for family practice interns, practically a vacation on the surgical floor. Her new resident was nothing like Bailey, though, and nothing but accommodating. She wondered if he was giving her extra time to catch up, and extra hours off, because he was condescending, and thought she couldn't hack surgery, or was overly sympathetic, because he knew about her cancer, or if Alex got to him again, despite her instructions, or if she had just become the pretty blonde with the big boobs, all over again.

Leaning back heavily into her pillow, she ran her hand ruefully over the thick fabric of her robe. She may have survived, but Bethany Whisper died on Bailey's operating table. Whatever else she was, she'd never be doctor model again, not with her newly grown hair - still too thin and too limp and too dark - and her body carved like a roast. She'd always resented doctor model, until her hair came out in chunks, and her torso gaped at the seams, and she no longer recognized herself in her own skin.

She heard Alex come in nearly three hours later, and wondered if he had gotten in on some exciting surgery, or spent the day inserting fake boobs into vapid coeds, or if he'd run a half marathon after work. She heard the shower, and felt him slip in quietly beside her, though she stayed turned toward the wall as if she were asleep, even as she felt his arm slip around her, and caught the familiar scent of soap and apples and fall; he always smelled like a crisp autumn evening, as if he'd been spawned in a pumpkin patch.

She lay awake for a long while, ignoring the chiseled arm that still curled around her. He'd be perfect for plastics, she thought, with his heavily muscled arms and his unlined body. She'd seen Sloan's patients, the endless parade of blondes that were actually pretty, or actually blonde, and who someone could actually look at even when the bathroom was fully lighted, and the mirror un-steamed, and the white robe still on its hook.

"You're on my side," she huffed finally, as he settled beside her. "Only on line forty seven," he mumbled as he pulled her closer, and she giggled despite herself. It had been her idea the year before, the stripped sheets, to divide the bed equally. It worked for all of six minutes, until he insisted on counting each stripe for himself, which left her giggling and gasping and shrieking, "Pervert," she muttered, securing her robe more tightly as she wiggled to her left. "Prude," he retorted, nuzzling her neck as he drifted off to sleep.

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"You what?" Izzie asked incredulously, several months later. "I already talked to Bailey and the Chief about it," he shrugged, "it's all set." "You're changing residencies, just like that," she demanded, "without even talking to me about it?" "I didn't know I needed your permission," he snapped. "We make our own decisions, right?"

"This is great" she bit back, seething. "You know I want to have kids. You know I changed my plans so we could do that, and now you put us even further behind." "I won't be behind," he objected. "Simmons said I've done enough work in pedes that if I do extra shifts for the next six months I can join his current cohort."

"You planned all that," she retorted, shaking her head "without once mentioning anything to me?" He avoided her stare, and the tone she always used when she thought he needed a lecture. "Does Mere know," she asked softly, "or Cristina?" "Mere knows," he admitted. "Which mean Cristina knows too," she pointed out.

"No," he insisted, "I asked Mere not to tell anyone." "She tells Cristina everything," Izzie groused. ""I asked her not to tell anyone," he repeated more slowly, as if that ruled out any possibility of her doing so. "I guess that's something," she muttered under her breath. "Don't worry," Alex snorted, "Yang will be calling me Evil Stork as soon as she hears."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she said, exhaling heavily as she struggled to level her tone. He eyed her reluctantly. He'd gotten enough taunting from all of them, Izzie included, when he worked on neo-natal; the last thing he needed was to hear that he was going pedes pink and squishy, especially from her.

"I'll make less money," he mumbled, looking at his shoes, "and if you want like a huge house or something-" "You thought I'd be mad about that?" she asked, shaking her head. He tried to avoid meeting her eyes again. She'd been poor too – trailer park poor – and he knew she'd want something better than that. "You are mad," he pointed out. "That you didn't tell me," she corrected, "not that you changed your mind."

"Lost it is more like it," he muttered, since plastic surgeons were rock stars, and pedes surgeons … just weren't. "It's not exactly…" he stammered, his face reddening. "You're embarrassed," she teased, watching him squirm. "You're embarrassed that you like kids." "Working with kids," he corrected. "Okay," she giggled, "so you don't like kids but you like working them?" "Hate kids" he insisted sternly as she put her arms around him. "The surgeries are just cooler," he grumbled, looking away as she tried to meet his eyes.

"Hating kids? Always a good trait in a pediatric surgeon," Izzie commented, nodding seriously. "It sounds worse when you say it out loud," he grumbled. "That's because you're being ridiculous," she noted. "I meant pediatric surgeon," he corrected, almost grimacing at the words as she laughed, pulling him closer.

"You're not mad?" he asked suspiciously. "I want you to do what you like," she said, "what you're good at." "I was good at plastics," he protested, "and it pays a lot better." "I know," she said, "but this is what you want. And you won't be behind, so we'll be ready to start our family as soon as I finish my residency," she added excitedly. "Yeah," he nodded nervously, his stomach churning as she kissed him.

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He wasn't ready. He promised he would be, but he still watched her sleep some nights – curling her hair delicately through his fingers – and the vivid images still came, of her sagging lifelessly in his arms. He wasn't ready, but he'd promised, and it scared him even more, that his nightmares might eclipse her dreams, sending her running away again, into a sunny dawn beyond anything he could fathom, as she slipped from his grasp.

He wasn't ready, but he left the envelope on her night stand anyway, before he went in for a pre-dawn surgery, as part of his extra training. Later at lunch, she pulled him aside, looking at him quizzically. "Happy Anniversary?" he shrugged, sure she hadn't expected candy or flowers, any more than she had a leather palm tree with a small silver ring.

"I was talking to Rimkin in gynie," he said, "he's got this big old place he was renting out, and he's trying to sell it," he rambled, watching shyly as her face lit up. "It needs a lot of work," he emphasized, sure she was already getting carried away, "but it's in a nice neighborhood and he'll give us a great deal." He studied her warily, knowing that look. "It needs a lot of work," he cautioned again, almost cringing, "but it's ours if we want it."

"We want it," Izzie squealed, nodding excitedly. "You haven't seen it," he pointed out, rolling his eyes. "It's-" "Does it have a yard?" she asked gleefully. "With a white picket fence," he groaned, shaking his head as she threw her arms around him. "When can we see it?" she asked breathlessly. "Thursday," he said, "I thought we could go over and-" "See our future children's' bedrooms?" she filled in, her enthusiasm already bubbling over. "See what needs to be done," he sighed, slurping his soda and shaking his head with a frown, "it needs a lot of work."

Three days later, he put the key in the lock, warily pushing the door open. "Don't you want to carry me across the threshold?" she teased. "We might go through the floor boards," he pointed out gruffly, as he followed her inside. It was at least as bad as he remembered, with old wood floors that needed sanding, and peeling wall paper, and garish orange paint in the dining room, and a hall closet door slightly off its hinges.

"Look at that," Izzie exclaimed, gazing at the big bay window over looking the front yard, "and the fire place, it has a mantle, just like I've always wanted. And that corner," she pointed eagerly, "that's where our Christmas tree will go." "That's months away," he reminded her. "Where's the kitchen?" she asked, beaming at him.

"Through there," he pointed reluctantly, dreading her reaction to the aged appliances, the tile that needed replacing, and the faded floor. She deserved better, he reminded himself, his face reddening as he followed her around the corner. This had obviously been a bad idea. "My own oven," she chirped, ignoring the squeaky hinges as she peeked inside. "And a window over the sink. And is that the back yard? We have room for a swing set."

"How about you check out the up stairs before we move in," he reminded her. "You might not like it," he called from behind her, though she was already half way up the ornate stairway, fondling the solid oak banister. Wandering down the hallway, she gazed happily at the three huge bedrooms with the built in book shelves and the giant windows – one perfect for a nursery, the other two with fire places – and surveyed the enormous hall bathroom.

"I can fix those tiles," he said, almost apologetically. "The bathrooms have updated plumbing," he added, "so I can do the rest of the work myself." He followed her into the main bedroom, watching her peer out of the huge windows overlooking the back yard, and sure she was already picturing children playing on the swing set she imagined.

"I love it," she said softly as they walked back down stairs. "It's a lot of work," he repeated, his stomach churning as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, "and even in this shape, we can barely afford it. But the school district's good – " "You asked about the school district?" Izzie squeaked, suddenly turning back toward him. "I hate kids, remember" he sighed, staring at the ceiling.

"Right," she nodded, moving to the bay window again. "Tell him we want it," she said turning back toward him eagerly. "You sure?" he asked, frowning seriously. "I'm sure," she said, nodding vigorously as she put her arms around him. He pulled her closer, his hands shaking slightly. "Did you bring me here to seduce me?" she asked suspiciously.

"Me?" he asked innocently. "You've got dirty in your eyes," she pointed out. "You always say that." "Yeah, well, now you've got filthy in your eyes," she taunted. "If I'd known that run down old houses turn you on," he shrugged, raising his eyebrows at her. "That's what I mean," Izzie nodded. "It's a new house to us," he said sheepishly, "it will need to be christened." "I think they christen ships, not houses," she corrected, sliding her arms around his neck. "Prude," he protested. "Pervert" she insisted, kissing him softly.

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She'd even told Mere that, unlike Derek, he'd never be a flowers and candy guy.

She should have been more specific, she realized, months after their fourth anniversary, as she pruned the rose bushes he'd given her, for in front of the bay window. Other husbands might offer "dead weeds," as he dismissively called them, normal husbands, husbands who wanted to keep their wives happy; hers presented a dripping half flatbed of "more practical" live bushes and a shovel, leaving her to plant them. And a comically wide brimmed hat, for gardening, and sunscreen, of course, because no gift was complete without sunscreen, even in Seattle.

They were beautiful, though – yellow and pink and white – and had grown well over the past summer, nearly blanketing the railings along the front porch. She surveyed her work happily, stepping back to gather her tools, and storing them for the evening. Passing back through the living room, she reminded herself to put paint stripper on her shopping list, again. She was sure she could restore the huge fireplace to its original luster, currently hidden under an indescribable array of bluish hues, despite Alex's occasional smirks as he refinished the battered wood floors, and wrestled the hall closet door back into place.

Walking into her cheery yellow kitchen, she put on her tea kettle and checked for phone messages. Scanning a crumpled paper on the counter, she studied another ingredient list, frowning as she pondered what it would take to perfect her brownie recipe. She was sure she was missing a simple ingredient, and rattled through her cabinets, shaking her head as she poured her tea. His flight wasn't due until later much that night, leaving her time to do some experimenting.

She was already half asleep when she heard the floorboards creak, and the shower running across the hall, and felt him crawl into bed beside her. "How is she?" she asked softly, rolling over and scanning his face. "Okay," he muttered," they moved her to the skilled care floor. Her sisters still visit her every day." "What are the doctors doing for her?" Izzie asked cautiously.

"Making sure she doesn't wander off mostly," he said, "she was pretty hazy on her address. They have a monitoring cuff on her." "She still knows who you are, though, right, and her sisters?" "Sometimes," he mumbled, turning away onto his other side and burrowing into his pillow. "Does she-" "Iz," he interrupted tiredly, "I had a long flight. I have to go in early tomorrow." "Okay," she said, biting her lip. Ordinarily, she would press him on this, but this wasn't the time, and she knew he'd tell her more if she waited.

He wasn't ready to talk the next day, either, though, or the day after, as he buried himself in his work, as usual, or even the next week, though she overheard him quietly inquiring about moving Anna to Seattle, or the following month, when he flew to Iowa for another quick visit, as she worked on recipes, and visited her own mother more often.

"Is she coming?" Izzie asked finally, a few days after his return the following month, after he'd made sure he was too busy and too distracted to say a word. "What?" he asked, halting mid way through replacing the heating vent filter he was hovering over. "Your mother," she said pointedly, "are you bringing her to Seattle?"

"Why would I do that?" he snapped, popping the filter into place and gathering up the packaging, "her sisters are in Iowa, her friends, her church, her house. There's nothing for her here." Izzie nodded, eying him closely. "Did she remember you this time?" she asked quietly. He ignored her question, sweeping up stray bits of insulation and heading toward the stairs. "Alex," she called, following after him.

"They found him," he blurted, pounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. "What?" Izzie asked, frowning. "My dad," he said, turning away from her as he shoved his tools into the utility closet. "In a gutter in Milwaukee," he added bitterly "with the needle still in his arm." "Alex-" she said, crossing over to the sink where he was rinsing his hands. He moved away abruptly, blindly searching the wrong drawer for a dry dish cloth.

She pulled one out quietly, placing it beside him. "They brought his body back to her. They never divorced or anything…" he rambled, awkwardly unfolding the bright floral towel. "She remembered him," he sputtered. "Alex-" " And I'm the guy who drove him away, that's what she remembers."

Izzie watched him nervously. "I couldn't go back for that. Not to hear her go on about how great he was, how much he loved her…" "Alex-" she interrupted. "She actually loved the bastard," he said incredulously, seething as he threw the towel down on the counter. Izzie took a step forward, halting immediately as he pulled away again.

"He was her whole world," he sputtered, running his hands over his hair and clumsily opening a cabinet, rooting for a glass. She stopped him before he could break anything, pulling it down without a word. He stared blankly at the glass, bewildered and shaking slightly. "I was just trying to protect her," he insisted. "I know," she said softly, barely breathing as she stood rooted in place.

"And I didn't want any damn lecture from you," he seethed, " about how he's still my freaking father and I should just go to the funeral and listen to-" "Alex," she interrupted again, watching his hands trembling as he grabbed his keys and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

He never went home that evening, and never called. Izzie went to the hospital herself, tracking him down and bursting into the far flung on call room he'd holed up in. "This," she insisted angrily, "has got to stop." "Huh?" he mumbled, bleary eyed and disoriented. "This," she fumed, motioning around the room, "you, running away, whenever-".

"I'm going back next month," he retorted, "I'm not just walking out on her." "I didn't think you would," she snapped. "What?" he said. "I'm talking about me," she blurted. "I'm right here," he pointed out sarcastically. "You're not on call," she noted, "you're not at the gym, or at Joe's, yet you're not home." He glared at her as he listened to the litany. "What, Iz-" he said, "so I'm-"

"I've met your mother," she insisted, "I like her. I want to help. You won't even talk to me." "Nothing to say," he shrugged, sitting up gruffly. "Oh, no," she demanded, "how about that your dad died and you're not going to his funeral. How about that your mother –" "I already told you everything," he said. "A month later," she protested, "I wouldn't have lectured." "What do you call this?" he challenged, motioning between them.

Izzie deliberately unclenched her fists, leaning back heavily against the door. "I saw you and Meredith in the cafeteria earlier," she said, working to control her tone. "I'm not sleeping with her" he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I get that Mere's mom had it, too," she continued, ignoring his tone as she took another deep breath. "I get that you're friends. Why can't I help, too?"

"I don't need help," he growled, spitting the words out bitterly between clenched teeth. "She doesn't try to help. She just…" he stopped suddenly, leaning away toward the small window as vague shadows crept across the floor. She watched him curiously, the hair on the back or her neck crawling as she exhaled quietly into the passing storm.

"I want her to forget me," he said finally, getting up and peering out the window. "She remembers things with my dad, good things, that never happened," he added sharply as he shook his head. "She thinks he loved her," he mumbled, sitting back on the cot and pulling at the label from the water bottle he'd picked up. "Did he?" she asked cautiously, her voice carrying softly from across the room, into the anger still radiating from him.

"No!" he glared at her furiously. "You don't beat the crap out of someone you love," he shouted, springing up from his seat. "You don't-"he growled, hurling the bottle toward the cinder block wall, plastic shards splintering and scattering across the floor. Izzie stood silently, her stomach churning and her legs wavering as she groped for words.

"He didn't love her," Alex stammered, after a long silence, "but she remembers that he did." He stood abruptly, moving toward the wall and expertly gathering the plastic shards that littered the floor. "I'm not taking that away," he insisted, "not again." "Alex-" she said quietly, the words burning in her throat. "We did enough damage, both of us," he interrupted, staring at the ground. "She deserved better," he mumbled, as he gathered the rest of the bottle shards in his hands.

"You were trying to protect her," Izzie reminded him softly. "Yeah," he snorted, "did a great job." "Alex-""She almost killed herself," he whispered, "after he left. Think she might have, if…" "If you hadn't helped her?" Izzie filled in. "She wouldn't have needed help," he snapped, "if I hadn't-" "Alex," she interrupted, "you said he was-" "He was," Alex insisted. "But she's happy now. Sometimes," he added with a smirk "she forgets he's dead. But she knows he came back to…" "Fix things?" she volunteered. "To put them back to how they were, before I screwed everything up," he muttered, dropping the remainders of the bottle in the trash bin.

Izzie watched quietly, waiting as the anger receded. Fumbling through her purse several moments later, she pulled out a baggie. "There's three batches in the kitchen," she said ruefully, shaking her head and exhaling heavily. "I still haven't found the missing ingredient." "They're always good," he shrugged, eying the bag as she buttoned her coat.

"You coming?" she asked softly. "Three batches?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Yes, we have milk," she chuckled, shaking her head as he pulled on his jacket, grabbing the bag as they went to the door. "You know this is cheating," he accused, as he dug into the brownies. "Of course," she admitted, "don't get crumbs in the car."

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Peeking around a darkened corner, Izzie giggled, watching the animated discussion wind down as he eased the infant back into his crib. She'd decided years before that that was why he was sometimes talked out by the time he got home; that, or three a.m. was his peak time to communicate. "That must have been his idea," she announced, laughing as Alex's head snapped up. "Huh?" he asked.

"Nurse Yoshi told me you'd be here," she said, noting his startled expression. "They all know," she teased, peering in at the boy he'd operated on the week before. He cleared his throat gruffly as he scribbled on the baby's chart. "I was just checking his vitals," Alex retorted, "it's my job." "Um-huh," Izzie laughed, as she sat in the rocking chair he'd just vacated "Did you need something?" he asked impatiently.

"I couldn't wait to thank you, so I came in early," she replied, rocking happily. "Three a.m.?" he asked, raising his eyebrows suspiciously. "I wasn't expecting it," she noted, beaming at him. "I always get you an anniversary present," he grumbled, sitting in the chair next to hers. "You like it, huh?" he asked, a shy smile tugging at his lips. "I love it. Now I can invite my mother for Christmas, and-" "That's over six months away," he pointed out, leaning his head back and gazing at the ceiling.

"I know," she sighed, "but it looks great in the dining room, now that the chair rail's fixed." "And you painted over that orange," he added, grimacing. "I would have wrapped it," he frowned, "but-" "A table?" she laughed. "Wanted you to be surprised," he said.

"I was, trust me," Izzie nodded, wide eyed. "Well," he admitted, his brow furrowed, "with wood, it's not like there were a lot of options." "What?" she asked, with a baffled frown. He shrugged, looking away again. "I mean, I knew that was the kind you wanted."

"Okay," she said slowly, still perplexed as she rose and peered into the crib again. "So how's Jacob doing?" she asked. "Good," Alex said, following behind her. "He's got one more surgery, but he'll be fine." Izzie leaned down, stroking the baby's arm. "That's what they told me," she whispered to him, "when I was sick, and I'm all better now. And you have a great doctor," she added mischievously, "the nurses say he spoils you."

"Iz-" he groaned. "I don' think he understands yet," she said, rolling her eyes, "and I don't think he'd hold it against you." "I need to be meaner to the nurses," he muttered. "No," she laughed, "they all hate you." "They do, huh?" he smirked proudly. "Yeah," she said "they feel sorry for me." "For what?" he demanded. "We've been married five years now," she reminded him, "they don't know how I put up with you." "They're nurses," he shrugged, "what do they know."

"Alex," she huffed, swatting at him as he put his arms around her and moved in to kiss her neck. "What?" he said innocently. "Not in front of the children," she teased. "They have to learn sometime," he noted, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "Pervert," she insisted, sighing as he nuzzled against her. "Oh yeah" he mumbled dreamily, nibbling her ear. "Alex," she giggled, swatting at him again. "Prude," he groused.

"I talked to Dr. Rooney yesterday afternoon," she said quietly, sliding her arms around him. "Yeah," he said nervously, avoiding her eyes. "My scans are clear, my blood work's perfect. It's been four years," she added. "I know," he whispered. "And next year," she continued, toying with his collar, "I'll be working at the Family Practice Network. Dr. Gentry's already told me they'll have a position for me."

"Of course he wants you," Alex observed, "you're a rock star." "And you'll be a big shot Attending soon," she added. "Years away," he protested. "It's time, Alex," she said, gently lifting his face and forcing him to look at her. "Don't you want this?" she asked, gazing around the nursery as she searched his eyes. "Yeah," he mumbled, scanning all the sick children around them, "I just, you think we're ready?" he asked hesitantly.

"I visited them a few days ago," she whispered. "The embryos?" he asked, wryly. "I want them to know my voice," she insisted. "They're popsicles," he frowned. "They're our children," she huffed, swatting him again. "I even have names picked out for them, two girls and two boys." "What if we only have, say, two?" he challenged. "Then we'll have two girls," she replied immediately. "Why girls?" he demanded. "Seriously," she snorted, "would you rather have two sweet, innocent, beautiful little girls," she crooned, "or two little Evil Spawnlets," she grimaced. "Well," he grumbled, "when you put it that way..."

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"I told her we're going to start trying soon," Izzie said excitedly, months later, after her mother left following her Christmas week visit. "That why she was looking at me like that?" Alex asked suspiciously. "Probably," she chuckled, "she said she's too young to be a grandmother, but wouldn't mind being an aunt." "Sounds like a Stevens," he teased. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded. "Well, you do think a lot alike."

"We do, huh? Then I guess you won't need these," she added, reaching for the plate of Christmas cookies her mother had made. "No," he said quickly, pulling it back, "I just meant great minds think alike." "Liar," she taunted, reaching for the plate again. "No," he protested, stopping her, "I'll be good." "Too late," she groused, settling back beside him on the couch, "Santa already came." "Um-huh," he nodded, inhaling another cookie.

"Do you like what he brought you?" she teased. "It's awesome," he nodded, smiling broadly, "how'd you know?" Izzie laughed, rolling her eyes, "you're practically on top of the television anytime the commercial's on." "I am not," he protested, fondling the shiny box as he examined the front picture. "The batteries are in your stocking," she reminded him. "Sweet," he said, settling back gleefully and studying the glossy photo.

"You used to look at me like that," she sighed. "Iz," he protested wryly. "What?" she complained, "I can't compete with a remote control dinosaur." "Not just a dinosaur," he insisted, vigorously shaking his head, wide eyed and serious, "a tyrannosaurus." Taking the box from him, she set it on the coffee table and pushed him down onto the sectional, kissing him. "Not the right answer?" he smirked. "So not the right answer," she agreed.

"You really like it huh?" she asked smugly, still hovering over him. "Um-hum," he nodded eagerly, "you always pick the best presents." "Well," she admitted, "you don't really count. You're easy." "Not anymore," he objected, "I'm married, remember?" "True," she acknowledged, as he pulled her into a tighter embrace.

"Just think," she added, watching the tree lights glisten, their reflection dancing in the fire, "in a year or two there might be another stocking on the mantle." "Santa taking over for the Stork, is he?" Alex teased. "Careful," she warned, "if you want the triceratops next year, you'll have to be on your best behavior." "I was good this year," he insisted. "Yes," she giggled as he pulled her closer. "But I don't want to spoil you."

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Several months later, Izzie gripped the pamphlet tightly, half listening to the usual list of warnings. Her mind wandered as the current doctor, the fourth they'd consulted so far – she'd stop keeping track of their names – gave Alex the same answers, in the same serious tone, to the same pointed, detailed questions he'd asked all the others, about hormones and studies and statistics, as if she they were discussing a science experiment.

Her thoughts returned again to swing sets and dolls and Christmas stockings, until she realized that they were looking at her, waiting for an answer. "What?" she said suddenly, straightening in her seat as she ran her fingers through her hair. "She was asking about prior pregnancies," Alex said sharply, shuffling the papers in his hands. "Right," she said, forcing a smile. It was always the same questions. "I was pregnant once," she said, "when I was sixteen. It was uneventful," she added, using the standard medical shorthand, as if there could be any such thing as an uneventful pregnancy for a sixteen year old.

"You understand this will be very different," the doctor said firmly, sizing Izzie up. "Yes, of course," she replied, gritting her teeth. They always talked to her like she wasn't even a doctor, like she hadn't been a surgical intern once, even, like she scarcely knew what she was doing, like she didn't have a brain in her head. "I see your previous consults have outlined all the cancer risks," the doctor warned, "with the hormone treatments you'll need and -" "I know the risks," Izzie snapped impatiently. "We'd like to know when we can start," she demanded, glaring at the woman.

"We're still discussing it," Alex commented, not even looking in her direction. "No, we're not," Izzie said, standing abruptly. "We're doing this. When can we get started?" she repeated, ignoring the doctor's puzzled expression. "We could begin this week," the doctor said hesitantly, "but usually couples prefer to-" "When?" Izzie insisted, pulling out her calendar as Alex rose abruptly and left the office. . "Maybe you should talk with-" the doctor began, motioning toward the door. "We don't talk," Izzie snapped, staring intently at the startled woman, "can we please set a date?"

"Okay," the woman relented, "I actually had a cancellation for Thursday at-" "I'll take it," Izzie agreed. "Don't you need to check-" the doctor noted, indicating Izzie's date book. "I'll make time," Izzie insisted, "when should I be here?" "Two thirty," she said reluctantly, "but really, you should talk with-" "I'll be here," Izzie said quickly, gathering her things and rushing out of the office.

Stalking into the hallway, she found Alex pacing. "Come with me," she demanded, grabbing his sleeve and shoving him into the stairwell. "We're doing this," she insisted through clenched teeth, "no more waiting, no more consults, no more studies." "Iz-" he protested. "No," she repeated, cutting him off. "You slather me with sun screen in February, Alex, freaking February. You bundle me up in June. You change the heating filters every month so I'll have clean air," she ranted, rolling her eyes as she stressed the words.

"You just want to pretend none of this matters?" he demanded, furiously waving the papers he clutched. "I know the risks," she taunted, sarcastically emphasizing the word. "The chances of this even working aren't great. That's in your statistics, too, right?" she demanded. "And the longer we wait-" "It's not worth it," he hissed, grabbing her arm. "The odds-"

"I already beat them once, remember?" she demanded, roughly pulling away from him. "And I'll do it again, with you or without you," she added, glaring at him as she held her ground, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. "I'm already involved, remember?" he snapped. "Right," she snorted, "you deposited some swimmers into a cup, you're a real hero." "This affects me too," he retorted.

"No," she snapped, "I'm the only one who might get diabetes, or have a stroke, or a miscarriage. I'm the only one that might happen to." "What happened to you having a second chance?" he demanded. "This is my second chance," she shouted, "and I'm doing this," she spat, turning on her heel and storming up the stairs.

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She watched the clock, sure he'd gone to the gym to beat the stuffing out of a resin bag, or for a run – or to Joe's. Throwing her bed covers back, she went to the bedroom across the hall, already painted a delicate yellow, and freshly carpeted in ultra plush pile. She'd agreed to wait to furnish it, until she got pregnant. Sometimes she regretted that, fearing that a wish not whole heartedly expected was less likely to come true, like her mother always said. Wishing was big in the trailer park, since even there, wishes were free.

She did what she could, though, envisioning the nursery she dreamed of, with a white rocking chair, and delicate pink linens in the crib, and a fluffy stuffed lamb on the baby dresser, like the kind she'd gotten for Hannah, before they took her away. She imagined a rag doll, too, and a red bicycle, and a school bus that didn't rumble down a dirt road, and a closet full of pretty dresses that would never provoke snickers from the other children.

She'd already thrown away the pamphlets, scribbled with Alex's notes about risks and odds and cancer. The disease had already taken her hair, and her model's body, and her career; it had almost taken her will to live, more than once. But she would not let cancer take her future from her; she wouldn't let Alex take it, either.

She reminded herself of that the next day, when he came in and out without a word, grabbing some clothes before returning to the hospital, or to Joe's, or to Mere's, or to wherever he'd run away to this time. It was just as well, she noted the next day, when he sat silently beside her at her first appointment, seething, as the injections began.

He returned home the following night, and the night after, and the night after that, and sat silently in the next appointment, as instructions and warnings were needlessly repeated, and yet another appointment made for the first attempt to implant some of the embryos. They first talked two days later, about work, and roof tiles, and traffic and the water bill.

He sat beside her as she listened stoically to the doctors, the day the first implant failed, and the next round of injections was scheduled. He went along for the second failure, too, and the third, and sat silently as the doctor suggested that surrogacy might be their only realistic option.

He slumped awkwardly against the wall that evening, watching her sob silently in the empty bedroom, still a delicate yellow, still unfurnished, as the only future he was sure she really wanted ran down her cheeks. Sitting helplessly beside her shaking figure, he watched night creep into the room and he could hear his heart pounding frantically in his ears – like when he crouched out of sight in a different darkened room, watching another woman cry - until his head grew heavy, hitting the wall behind him with a dull thud, as he fell asleep where he sat.

He woke the next morning to sleet tapping on the huge windows and Izzie curled beside him, clinging to his body as he shifted, stiff and chilly, bile still burning in his throat. He slid his arms around her automatically as she stared blankly past him, shivering, and he noted that the room looked even more empty as dawn broke, and he wondered if insisting that they wait to furnish it had been another failed effort to protect her.

"We're not bringing them home, are we?" she whispered, her words ricocheting around the room like gunshots. They pinned him where he lay, and he was too cold to move and too stiff to form words; he'd been a father to phantoms before, and could do no better this time either, then to pull her closer, until she finally stopped trembling and drifted off.

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She woke hours later, in her own bed, beside Alex, who was still wrapped around her, snoring softly. Easing herself from his grasp, she sat up slowly, her head throbbing from the previous evening. Still groggy and cold, she pulled an old bathrobe from her closet, slipping silently out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

Entering her kitchen, she pulled out the cheery, bright red cast iron baking set Alex had given her for their sixth anniversary. She'd wondered at the time if he'd picked the color to lighten the moods that often inspired her baking, only to be told – inexplicably - that cast iron just looked cooler in red.

She was already on her fourth batch when he popped into the room, bleary eyed and rumpled, and sat warily at the counter, watching as she frosted two plates of cup cakes, and removed a batch of muffins before the oven timer even went off. Setting them down to cool, she poured a glass of milk and slid it across to him with a small plate.

"We're out of chocolate chips" she commented quietly, "and I didn't have enough sugar to make brownies." Alex nodded, a wry half smile flickering across his face. She always made him brownies when things between them were fine, and chocolate chip cookies as a peace offering, and oatmeal cookies when she was close to forgiving him, with raisins, if they shared equal blame. Cup cakes were sometimes just sad, though, and muffins were usually just more convenient than pancakes, and beyond that, much harder to interpret.

"These are good too," he nodded, picking up a muffin and placing it on his plate. "I know you don't understand," she said softly, several moments later "but they're all I can think about sometimes. I can't just give up." He watched her hands as she baked, so different from how they were after her surgeries, when they lay lifeless in his. "You're right," he said quietly, avoiding her gaze, "I don't."

Rinsing off her spoon, she watched him carefully. "I never knew, you know, if I'd have another Christmas, or another birthday, with another lop sided cake," she added wryly. "I didn't know if I get a second chance." "You already have," he insisted. "I know," she said, reaching across the counter and taking his hand, "and I want to make the most of it. I want to do everything I dreamed of, have children, everything."

"We could still try surrogacy," he mumbled reluctantly. "I just can't," she whispered, squeezing his fingers as she shook her head. "I've been in that hospital room before," she reminded him. "I even had a name picked for her." "That wasn't the same," he noted as he watched her face darken. "No," she agreed, "but you can't just carry a child for nine months and…," she paused, shaking her head again, "that's not how it's supposed to be."

"Yeah," he muttered, running his thumb across her fingers as he stared at his plate, remembering how white they were when they slipped from his, after her breathing stopped, and the alarms started blaring. "And I can't live like that," she added softly, following his gaze, "always wondering if it's going to come back, putting things off because I might not be here in a year…"

He looked away, forcibly steadying his breathing as he bobbed his head. "But what if…" he stammered quietly. "What if we both live to be 200?" she asked. "Can't you ever be positive?" she pleaded, her brown eyes boring into him as she lifted his face to meet her smile. She knew they were more dangerous to him even than her brownies, and that this was cheating, and that he knew it, too.

"I guess I better fix that oven timer, then," he grumbled, looking away as he picked at his muffin, "if we're going to live here that long." "My bake ware will last at least that long," she pointed out, laughing nervously. "Oh yeah," he said, nodding seriously, "cast iron." "Does cast iron turn you on or something?" she asked suspiciously.

"It's just hard to find iron ideas," he shrugged, missing her perplexed glance. "But now that you mention it," he added, raising his eyebrows as he moved toward her. "Not in front of the bake ware," she insisted, pointing her spoon at him. "Prude," he muttered, taking another muffin. "Pervert," she objected, snatching it back from him.

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"Ooh, what are you making now?" nurse Jaeger asked months later, spying the multi colored fabrics in Izzie's knitting bag. "Another blanket," Izzie chuckled. "For anyone special?" she asked curiously. "One of my husband's patients," Izzie replied, rolling her eyes at yet another less then subtle enquiry from one of her office assistants.

"Wow," the nurse said, "so he operates on them and you make blankets for them." "I don't do this for all of them," Izzie laughed, "but he gave me so much wool for our last anniversary that I had to do something with it." "Wool?" Jaeger asked, puzzled. "He picks some interesting gifts," Izzie laughed, shaking her head and furrowing her brow. "He gave me a tea kettle, too."

"I have one of those," the older nurse chuckled. "A tea kettle?" Izzie asked. "No," she laughed, "a husband with a strange sense of romance. You know, that man has never once given me flowers in the whole sixteen years we've been married." "Careful what you wish for," Izzie cautioned, "I hinted about roses once." "And?" the woman asked. "These big bushes arrived on our anniversary, dripping wet on a flatbed from the local farm supply store, and I had to transplant them all myself." "Not what you had in mind?" the woman teased. "Definitely not," Izzie agreed with a chuckle.

"How long have you been married?" Jaeger asked. "Seven years," Izzie said casually. "Ooh, the lucky seven maybe?" she asked, pointing eagerly to the blanket. "We'll see," Izzie groaned, folding her knitting up and putting it back in her bag. "Hope so," she added, as she cleared her lunch from her desk. "He's finishing his residency soon; we're hoping he gets a fellowship at Seattle Grace. "

"That's where you two met, right?" "We were in the surgical program together," Izzie replied. "Oh, I didn't know that," Jaeger commented, plainly impressed. "I just preferred family practice," Izzie said quickly. "Well," the woman said, "the patients love you." Thank you," Izzie said, smiling as she looked at her roster. "Now, who's next?"

The usual flu shots and health forms filled her afternoon, and she was surprised to find Alex already home, hastily packing, when she arrived by five. "What's going on?" she asked sharply. "Huh?" he replied, as if he hadn't seen her enter the bedroom. "What are you doing?" she repeated, motioning to the mess he was making.

"My mother's sister called this morning," he said, blindly tossing clothes into his duffle bag. "She died this morning, massive stroke." "Oh," Izzie said, walking toward him, "I'm so sorry-" "I gotta go take care of things," he said, zipping the bag shut and brushing past her, not looking up as he shoved his wallet in his jacket and grabbed his keys. "I'll come with you," she said, moving to the closet to grab her own bag. "Iz-" he protested, his voice tired but forceful. "I'm coming," she insisted, "give me fifteen minutes."


	2. Chapter 2

Standard disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

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He drove for hours, silently scanning the road. She wanted to say something, but she knew that, with him, one wrong word would make things worse than a thousand miles of silence ever could. Her instinct was to bake or to chatter, so she focused on the scenery; she couldn't quite remember how long the drive had been the first time, when she fiddled with her hair and lip gloss, and the clumsy map he'd given her for the trip.

She probably should have brought it with her, it occurred to her somewhere near Idaho; it wouldn't be much help in the pitch dark, but still more useful there than where it was at the moment, still stashed in her bedside table, because it was her first anniversary present, after all, and she never expected candy or flowers anyway.

They drove straight to the mortuary, and were led to a room too brightly lit, with floors too shiny, and chrome gurneys too finely polished. She'd been in morgues before, had even received a bouquet of corpses once, but the harsh antiseptics burned her eyes, and the taste of the rubbery egg concoction she'd eaten at the last service station still singed her throat, and she was still groggy from the long ride.

She watched his face darken as he approached the body – remembering that he never believed anything he couldn't see or touch or feel for himself – and saw him lacing his fingers through his mother's as he bent forward to whisper something in her ear.

He kissed her forehead, too, something she'd seen him do for her a thousand times, and she felt her stomach slide into her shoes as she stood rooted in place, her legs trembling. The glaring lights were giving her a headache, and she tried to focus her eyes and control her breathing as she watched him sit on a small round metal stool, perching beside the gurney as he held his mother's hand, and delicately brushed a stray hair from her face.

She'd seen him do that before too, when she'd wake from her own surgeries, and find him asleep in the hard plastic chair beside her bed, his fingers still woven through hers; she wondered how many times he'd done that for his mother, too; she imagined it was too many, so many that he could scarcely imagine doing anything else.

She heard the clock ticking beside her, and watched him whispering something more, like his very early morning conversations with his youngest patients, who, like corpses, she gathered, weren't especially prone to judge. She wondered if he was apologizing again; she wondered, sometimes, if he knew how to say anything else.

She watched him kiss her forehead again, the only substitute he knew, she suspected, for words he couldn't say even now, and saw his hands shaking as he signed forms without even looking at them, and noticed him linger, as if to make sure there was nothing more to do, before squeezing her hand one last time, and placing another kiss on her forehead.

She forced her legs to move, to walk forward at least, to say her own good by as he spoke quietly with the attendants, blankly making arrangements for viewings for her friends and flowers he'd never recognize and a casket he chose by serial number, and wouldn't even look at, and burial beside his father, where, Izzie imagined, she always expected to be.

They returned hours later to the house that had been hers, the homey brick four square, and she watched as he almost knocked on the front door, before suddenly pulling out his keys. The house was dusty and neglected, and piled with old magazines. The carpet needed vacuuming, too, Izzie noticed, shaking off her jacket and setting to work.

It made no sense really, to vacuum just then, since she was tired and hungry. But Alex was already fixing the wobbly leg on the coffee table, as if his mother might come home any moment and spill her tea if he didn't, and she knew from their previous visits that Anna was always tidy about vacuuming before the Alzheimer's unraveled her, and she was lost in time.

She wondered why he'd never done anything with the place, why he was still paying taxes and utilities on a house he hated, long after his mother had been moved, but she spied the pictures still lining every wall and imagined that he always figured his mother would come back someday, just as Anna imagined her husband would return to her. She wondered if Anna had gotten her wish, if they were finally together in heaven, young and smiling, like they were in the modest wedding photos she passed in the hallway. The kitchen was basically empty, though, and she laughed when Alex caught her rummaging a few minutes later, and noted that even the wild Iowa frontier had pizza delivery. She dropped onto the couch hours later, ignoring that he had turned on every light, and was rattling through the house as he checked for loose nails, and tightened old hinges, and patched a cracked tile in the kitchen, long after she'd fallen asleep.

"This okay?" she asked the following day. It was a silly question, since her dress was black and unwrinkled, which was really all that mattered. "Yeah," he muttered, blinking and bewildered as they arrived at the funeral home. The wake was small, attended mostly by his mother's two sisters and friends from her church. They looked like Izzie imagined middle aged Iowa women would look, with sturdy shoes and sensible coats, and nothing like her own mother, who wore red pumps to funerals, to match her neon nail polish.

She watched as Alex hovered in the background, largely unrecognized except by the staff, who spoke with him quietly about the funeral the following day. She watched as the gathering broke up, and he kneeled beside the casket, placing two small items inside. "Her wedding ring," he answered with a shrug, when Izzie joined him. "Least it wasn't plastic," he noted wryly, his voice wavering. Izzie giggled despite her dry throat, as he lightly fingered his mother's sleeve. "That your pin from med school?" she asked.

He nodded, tucking it further under her hand, beneath her rosary beads. "She always wanted me to be…" "To be what?" Izzie asked. "She loved you," he mumbled, after a long pause. "I knew she would," he insisted, a crooked half grin crossing his face. He rose abruptly, taking her arm. "Come on," he said, avoiding her eyes as he turned away.

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The next afternoon he listened vaguely to the sermon, the wind ruffling his hair as he gazed at the dark coated attendants by the graveside. The scene reminded him of his nightmares, except that in them Izzie always wore white, and not the heavy, dark green coat she pulled around her that morning, as they stepped into Iowa's biting gusts. He got it for her years before, the heaviest wool he could find, when she was still recovering, and shivered even in the early spring breezes that she'd looked forward to that whole winter.

He watched the coffin lowered into the earth, and wondered irrationally if she'd be cold, without her heavy blue winter coat, the one she always wore to church, which was still in the hall closet at the house, and if she'd be safe, despite being buried beside the bastard. He never bought the heaven crap. But if there was any truth to it, his father would be in hell, anyway, too far away to harm her. Hell always made more sense, just as a concept.

He noticed that he was holding his breath, which was making him woozy, and he felt Izzie slip her fingers into his, and was surprised she didn't pull them away, since his had turned ice cold, and he couldn't stop them from trembling, and he was fighting not to grasp hers too tightly –as if she might tumble into the grave, too– if he loosened his grip.

He squeezed his eyes shut in the biting wind, remembering that he'd done that before, squeezed too tight, when she'd demanded that he let her go, the first time she died on him. He watched the coffin lowered deeper, and could almost feel her hand slipping from his again, cold and lifeless. He willed his legs to stiffen, and fought his instinct to demand that they stop – that they not leave her alone with that bastard in a dark grave – but he stood silent – he'd done enough damage the first time he'd tried to protect her.

He watched as the cemetery staff began to cover the grey box, and pulled roughly away when Izzie tugged lightly on his sleeve. Standing stiffly, he listened to the steady thump of fresh dirt until the workers finished and the spectators vanished and silence engulfed them. He didn't do funerals, he reminded himself, as he felt the wind whip his long coat around him, and watched lines of crosses marching one by one toward the horizon.

He stood rooted as the sun sank, and he remembered how much she hated Iowa's cold winters, and he recalled the bright red fire truck she'd scavenged for him one Christmas, when he was six and wanted to be a fireman, the last year he ever imagined he could be a hero, and he remembered the night at the hospital, when she looked at him as if even St. Jude couldn't save him.

"They're going to lock us in," Izzie said softly, motioning to the signs announcing that the cemetery closed at dusk. He nodded blankly, following her as he forced his rubbery legs across the rolling grounds. She grabbed his keys from him before he could react, and drove nearly half way to nowhere before admitting she wasn't sure where she was going. He studied the street signs, squinting into the darkness and wracking his brain to find his way back to a place he'd spent half a lifetime trying to forget.

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She was supposed to be hungry, she thought, when they returned to his mother's house, but she was freezing and tired and settled onto the couch without even changing her dress. She was half asleep when she felt two blankets drawn around her, and she didn't stir the rest of the night despite the rattling around her, as he gathered what he needed.

They left early the next morning, Alex still in his suit, minus tie, bleary eyed and groggy but with his gaze locked on the road. She took the keys from him again at their first stop, ignoring his glazed stare as the scenery turned from sparse corn fields, to pine trees and mountains, until finally the Seattle skyline came into stark view, as they emerged from a wilderness of silence.

She pulled into the driveway and went straight for her kitchen, bustling with her red bake ware and listening as he toted his hastily packed boxes to the basement, and gathered the mail and newspapers, and turned up the heat. Finishing in the kitchen, she noticed that he'd started a fire, and that the television flickered from the darkened living room.

She giggled as she entered, seeing that he'd already popped in one of his dinosaur videos, and polished off half the plate of brownies that she'd just made for him, and that his milk glass was empty, and that he was already asleep on the sectional. She threw a blanket over him and settled on the opposite side, relieved to finally be home, where she could bake or knit or do something – anything – other than watch helplessly.

She baked and knit over the next few weeks. She made mountains of brownies, since he was less inclined to lie on the bathroom floors than to replace them. She said nothing as he painted rooms that didn't need painting, and replaced tiles and floor boards that didn't need replacing, and changed filters that had never been used, and sealed the crawl spaces around their basement so tight that an anorexic ant couldn't fit through all the insulation.

She made mountains of blankets, too, while he shoveled neat snow paths even to the bird houses in the back yard, as if the finches expected mail delivery, and hunched stiffly on the sectional later, watching sixties sitcoms. She sat beside him for hours, stifling the occasional urge to stab him with a knitting needle, as another Dinosaur show aired, or another Weather Channel "apocalypse someday" scenario, and still he said nothing.

She chattered about her day anyway, though, sure that he was listening. They continued not to talk about his mother or the boxes in the basement, or the fury that coursed through the house, rattling the windows as he worked. He said nothing, except in his peculiar sign language, as his fingers occasionally knit through hers, and in their own dialect of Braille, suited only to the cover of darkness, and punctuated only by murmurs and moans and soft sighs, after the beastly roars died down, and he coiled around her, sated and drowsy.

It was a peculiar place for him to hide, she sometimes thought with a smirk, curled up in someone's arms, but no more so than her own those first few months after her "cure," as she nearly clawed her way out of her own skin – greedily wrapping his around her in its place – desperate to conceal the scars. She knew he was still a hiding place, too, though, even as she gathered him closer to her, her hands delicately smoothing raw nerves as he sank into her chest, sleeping peacefully.

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She baked and knit over the next few months, too, still sitting beside him long after his mother's house sold, as arrangements were quietly made to help her struggling sisters, and his fellowship applications went out, and he accepted a plum position at Seattle Grace, and she became a full partner at a new family medical practice, and made more frequent calls to the trailer park.

She talked at least weekly with her own mother, about tea and the diner and celebrity scandals, about lip gloss and knock off designer pumps and tarot cards. She had those nightmares again, too, of waking alone in a cemetery, in her flowing white gown; of Hannah crying for her, and her being unable to find her as she groped…

"Umph" Alex grunted, waking abruptly when she elbowed him sharply in the ribs as she rolled over in her sleep. "Sorry," she said, lightly stroking his arm, "weird dreams lately." "Hormones?" "he asked curtly. "What?" she asked. "I saw the letter from Maroney's office," he retorted, "thought you might be-" "I wouldn't do that without-" she insisted, shaking her head. "You did last time," he said flatly. "She said she wouldn't help me anymore, remember?" Izzie snapped, running her hands through her hair.

"It was about the embryos," Izzie replied tiredly, checking her alarm clock for the time as she rearranged her pillows. "We've only got two, maybe three years to decide what to do with them." "So you're going to try again," Alex muttered, "with another doctor." "I told her I'm having second thoughts," she said glumly. "You seemed pretty sure last time," he noted, watching her dubiously. "The odds are worse now," she admitted quietly, studying his face, shadowed in the dim room.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. She wanted him to fight her, to encourage her – to lie even – to assure her that she'd have her second chance. She wanted him to admit he wanted it, too, a child of their own, of his own, and not just the children of strangers, who he talked to, when he was sure no body else would hear him. She wanted that desperately, but he just shrugged, gently fingering her arm.

She hated that she knew exactly what he wanted – and what he wanted more - and that she could feel it even in his fingertips, the fear always ready to bubble over at the first hint of danger. She knew it was never cured, that its remissions were always partial, and its side effects devastating, and that it would always shadow him like a predator lying in wait, ready to consume him.

"We don't have to decide right away," she said finally, pulling the comforter around her as she turned back away from him. She felt the relief flooding his body, as he slid his arm around her, and she remembered that he didn't speak the language of years, that he lived by his watch and his calendar – in Tuesday afternoons and three o'clock appointments and four hour shunt placements – as if he couldn't imagine a future that stretched any further. She'd absorbed some of that too, she feared, as if it were contagious, since she found it harder and harder to think of someday, when time was running out for them.

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"I'm glad you liked it," Meredith said, several months later, laughing again at Izzie's incredulous expression. "I thought it would go nice in your dining room." "I figured he had help," Izzie giggled, "I just don't see him knowing much about table cloths." "And I do?" Meredith asked, as Izzie chuckled again. "We asked the sales lady," Meredith admitted. "Well," Izzie said, "the table cloth was still a nice idea."

"It was on his list," Meredith noted casually, as she sipped her coffee, enjoying the spring weather. "What list?" Izzie asked warily. "Uh," Meredith hesitated, "his… shopping list." "Alex doesn't write shopping lists," Izzie pointed out skeptically. "If I send him to the store without one, he just comes home with cookies. Or wool," she added, shaking her head. "If I waited for him to make a list, we'd starve." "Yeah, well…" Meredith stalled, suddenly reaching for her silent pager.

"Mere?" Izzie said, eying her closely, "What list?" "You'll have to ask him," she said finally. Izzie knew Mere wouldn't lie, but she wouldn't give him up, either. "Can you give me a hint?" Izzie wheedled, smiling sweetly. "Oh, no," Meredith insisted, finishing her coffee and rising quickly, "the last time you looked at me like that, I was wandering around the hospital in eight yards of taffeta. Really, Iz, you'll have to ask him." "Fine," Izzie huffed, watching as Meredith rushed off to her next appointment.

Later that night, she settled beside him on the sectional, thanking him again, and again, for her anniversary present, before plying him with brownies and batting her brown eyes at him, smiling sweetly. "Where'd you get the idea?" she gushed innocently, "it was perfect." He paused mid bite, eying her guiltily. "I had lunch with Meredith today," she warned, slipping her arms around him, "and I have ways of making you talk."

She knew that he was worse at lying even then Meredith, especially with her, and she giggled as he squirmed uncomfortably, resisting her grasp. "Okay, okay" he grumbled, pulling further away. "It was on the list," he shrugged, "big deal." "What list?" Izzie asked curiously. "Just a list," he mumbled, watching warily as she pulled the brownie plate away. "Can I see it?" she teased. "Fine," he groused, going up the stairs into their bedroom and rustling through his nightstand.

"This," he said as he returned, pulling back the crumpled paper as she reached for it, and gazing expectantly toward the plate. "Don't you trust your own wife?" she huffed, watching as he frowned dubiously. "On three," she sighed, moving the plate to the center of the coffee table as he handed over the paper. Smoothing its wrinkled edges and reading around the coffee stains, Izzie saw the title, and immediately burst into laughter.

"What?" he asked, gruffly. "Traditional Anniversary Gifts by Year?" she repeated out loud, giggling. "You got this… off the Internet…" she noted, turning over the recycled printer paper to see Seattle Grace's insignia. "And you,…" she read down the list "…took it pretty literally," she added, chuckling as she noticed the listings for flowers and cast iron and wool. "Iz," he grumbled impatiently, reaching for the paper. "No, no," she laughed, pushing his hand away. "I just… why?"

"I told you," he pouted, "I'm not good at this stuff." "I told you I'd teach you," she teased. "I wanted you to be surprised," he shrugged, "you like surprises." "Why is year sixty starred?" she asked, puzzled. "That year's diamonds," he said, "I figured it'd take me that long to afford a decent ring," he added, rolling his eyes. "When did you print this?" she asked suddenly, scanning the page for a date. "When we got married," he said, "I wanted to be ready."

"You should…" Izzie stammered, "you should, put this back, then." "Why?" he said, "you won't be surprised, now." "Trust me," she giggled, "I'll be surprised. Look, this year is… linens and lace…" she noted, scanning the list, "I would never have guessed a table cloth. I would have thought something more along the lines of… lingerie?" Alex smirked, rolling his eyes again. "It'd just get in the way," he pointed out. "You're right," she nodded, "you always give more practical gifts."

"If you don't like-" he protested. "No," she insisted, leaning over and kissing him to cut him off. "I love the table cloth," she repeated several moments later, breathless and light headed. "Yeah, good, good," he nodded, wide-eyed as he exhaled. "Come on," she said, tugging at his hand as she pulled him off the sectional. "What?" he asked, bewildered. "I'm going to teach you," she teased, kissing him again. "I thought you liked-" "I do," she nodded, grabbing the list again, and pulling him up the stairs to their bedroom.

"You're on my side," she accused him, nearly two hours later. "Only on line 57," he mumbled, his head buried in her neck as she giggled. The striped sheets she'd used early in their marriage, to divide the bed evenly, had been banished years before. They went the way of the silk pajamas she bought him once, which, she admitted years later, though never to him, would've just gotten in the way, too, and created needless laundry.

"It'll be perfect for the holidays," she whispered, poking him gently. "Months away," he reminded her sleepily as she pulled him closer, her fingers burrowing into his lower back. "You're on my side," he smirked, curling around her as his breathing slowed. "And very practical, that list"she mused to herself, kissing him softly, since cut flowers die quickly, and candy melts on long car trips, and lingerie's a nuisance to hand wash, besides getting in the way, and you never know when you'll need a good Iowa map, or a nice table cloth.

"Definitely a surprise," she giggled to herself, stroking him gently, like his enduring crush on Morticia Adams, and his apparent fondness for her crazy mother, and his weird dinosaur fascination, and his inexplicable attachment to the Weather Channel, and his still being curled around her seven years after the day he shaved her head, snoring softly, with a wrinkled list of Traditional Anniversary Gifts by Year stashed in his nightstand.

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"So he's an Attending now?" Robbie repeated, months later, as she stirred her tea at Izzie's kitchen table, "what's that mean again?" "He teaches other pediatric surgeons." "Oh," she said, "I thought internists did that?" "Interns, mom," Izzie corrected, "and no, interns are just there to learn. Residents teach them." "I thought you said Attendings did the teaching?" "They do," Izzie replied, "they teach the Residents." "Well then who actually operates?" Robbie asked. "They all do," Izzie said, cringing, "it's complicated."

"I'll say," Robbie agreed, "when Gladys had her gall bladder-" "Mom," Izzie interrupted. "I was just saying that when Gladys had her gall bladder out she had-" "Twelve doctors, I know mom," Izzie said, filling in the story she'd heard several times over the past two months. "I wonder if any of them were actually surgeons?" Robbie mused, adding more sugar. "Probably all of them," Izzie said under her breath, "except the Psych consult."

"What, Isobel?" Robbie asked, looking up suddenly. "Nothing," Izzie said. "We're just happy he has a permanent position at Seattle Grace." "Does that mean you'll be trying again?" Robbie teased, her eyes twinkling. "You two always get the lovers card, you know. And with that dreamy doctor of yours-" "Mom," Izzie giggled, "you have to stop saying that. You'll embarrass him." "I doubt he'd mind," she chuckled, "I bet he hears that a lot." "Not from people who know him," Izzie said quickly, chuckling.

"Oh, come on now," Robbie teased, "if there's one thing I know, it's handsome. Now, your father, he was one handsome man, let me tell you." "You have," Izzie pointed out sharply. "He wasn't a bad man," Robbie said sharply, "he just wasn't the marrying type." "Or the father type?" Izzie huffed. "No," Robbie admitted, "no, he wasn't. Some men aren't, you know, just like some women aren't the mother type." "Tell me about it," Izzie muttered. "What was that?" Robbie asked.

"Nothing," Izzie said, "I've just been thinking a lot lately about-" "Whether you're the mother type?" she asked. "No," Izzie shrugged. "Well, it'd be easier, now, right?" Robbie asked. "Since you quit the surgical program-" "I didn't quit, mom, I just-" "…and now that that husband of yours has a steady job-" "He's had a steady job since we started the program-" "…and you're not getting any younger-" "Mom," Izzie blurted out, "that's a horrible thing to say, especially for you."

Robbie laughed, "I just meant you don't have forever. Honestly, I didn't think you ever would, after Sarah." "Hannah," Izzie corrected immediately, "her name's Hannah, now." Robbie eyed her carefully. "That was a long time ago, Isobel. You should really just forget-" "Forget that I abandoned my child?" Izzie asked. "You didn't abandon her. You gave her a better life. Where would we have gone, with a baby? I could barely afford it when it was just the two of us." "I was working, too, mom, remember?" Izzie corrected.

"Not if you'd kept that baby," Robbie pointed out, shaking her head. "You think it's easy being a single mother? You'd still be in the trailer park." "I'd still have my daughter," Izzie added softly. "But what would she have? Did you even know who the father was?" Robbie asked. "Of course I did," Izzie snapped, abruptly dropping her spoon. "And I knew he'd be just like dad," she added bitterly, "so what was the point?"

"You're father wasn't a bad man," Robbie repeated, "he just-" "He just what?" Izzie demanded, "had better things to do?" Izzie watched her mother warily, an awkward silence growing between them. "Did you really think he'd come back?" Izzie asked softly. "He might," Robbie nodded, "still might, people do sometimes."

"Giving up that girl was the best thing you ever did," Robbie insisted softly. "You were too young to be raising a child." "I know," Izzie said glumly. "I was too young," Robbie added quietly, "and look at us." "Us?" Izzie asked. "I'm no brilliant doctor, but I know when I'm being judged, when your father's being judged." "Mom," Izzie interrupted, "I'm, that's not what I meant." "No?" Robbie eyed her. "No," Izzie sighed.

"I've just been thinking lately-" she admitted. "Hey," Alex interrupted, swinging briskly into kitchen. "Don't I get a kiss?" Robbie asked, batting her eyes at him. "Don't I get cookies?" he smirked. "They're on the counter," Robbie laughed. "Chocolate chip," she confirmed, catching his questioning glance, "I remember." "Awesome," Alex answered, kissing them both as he went off eagerly to wash his hands. "He's easy to please," Robbie chuckled. "Very," Izzie muttered sarcastically under her breath.

"Isobel," Robbie continued, "You wanted more from your life. You didn't just want to be like me." "Mom, I'm sorry if you thought… that wasn't my point." "I understand," she said patiently, "I wasn't a perfect mother." "You were pretty good," Izzie assured her warmly. "I must have done something right," she nodded, "look at you, a doctor, and married to a dreamy surgeon." "Mom," Izzie protested, chuckling again. "You're lucky, you know, you could still be in the trailer park." "I know," Izzie said quietly.

"I should be going," Robbie said quickly, "I have a long ride." "I'm glad you came," Izzie said. "Me, too" she acknowledged. "You know you're always welcome here," Izzie added. "That's, that's nice to know," Robbie said, smiling warmly. Tell you what," she added excitedly, "I'll have Edna do a reading for you, okay?" "Okay," Izzie chuckled, walking her to the door. "And I'll bring you some herbal tea, just in case. But remember, I'm going to be an aunt. I'm just not ready to be a grandma, yet." "Okay," Izzie laughed, hugging her and shaking her head as she watched Robbie drive away.

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"Not the Weather Channel again," Izzie groaned, dropping onto the couch beside Alex the following night. "It's cool," he objected, "it's about what would happen if a typhoon hit North America." "A typhoon?" Izzie giggled, "most of North America is land locked." "We're not," he pointed out seriously. "Let me guess," she teased, "you're calling our insurance company tomorrow to increase our typhoon coverage?" "That's not a bad idea," he agreed. "Why do watch these things?" she groaned, rolling her eyes.

"Always good to be prepared," he shrugged. "Isn't that the boy scout motto?" she teased. "So?" he smirked. "You," she taunted, "were never a boy scout." "True," he admitted, "but it might be fun to be a weather man." "A weather man?" she laughed. "What's wrong with that?" he protested. "You'd always forecast rain," Izzie teased, "even on days when it's eighty degrees and sunny." "You'd always forecast eighty degrees and sunny," he pointed out, "even in a typhoon, or a blizzard."

"It's always eighty degrees and sunny somewhere," she noted, grabbing the remote and switching to the Travel channel. "It's South America Week," she said smugly, clutching the remote tighter, "you can go back to your catastrophes after I see the wonders of Costa Rica." "Termites?" he suggested. "Rain forests?" "Blue skies," she sighed dreamily, "clear oceans, sandy beaches…" "Um-hum," he mumbled, as she settled into his arms, toying with his fingers.

"I'm thinking of trying to contact Hannah again," she said softly, after a long wait. "Yeah?" he said quietly. Izzie paused, staring at his hands. "I didn't mean for you to find out about her like that, the first time," she added awkwardly. "I should have told you about her a lot sooner, before we started-" "I get it," he shrugged, "you wanted to forget."

"It wasn't done, you know, in the trailer park. If you got pregnant, you were still a slut," she noted bitterly, "but you never gave up the baby. You just started the cycle all over again." "And you didn't want that," Alex acknowledged softly, "I get that." "I thought I wanted more than that for her," she said. "Didn't you?" he asked, frowning. "My mother thinks so," Izzie snorted. "Did you ask her about it?" Alex replied.

"She says she wanted more for me, too," Izzie groused, "but she just didn't want another kid around. You should hear her. She still thinks she's too young to be a grandmother." "But she didn't want you to stay there," he pointed out. "I wouldn't have anyway," Izzie snorted, "I would have done anything to get out." "You did get out," he reminded her, squeezing her fingers.

"But she never even wanted more for herself," Izzie said, shaking her head. "She just settled for staying in that trailer park. She's happy just to get her nails done and to have her palm read and to wait for…" "For what?" Alex frowned as she paused. "I don't know," Izzie muttered reluctantly, after a long while. "I always thought she was waiting for my dad to come back. Now, I'm not so sure." "She always seems pretty happy when she's here," he commented, shrugging, "maybe she's-"

"Hannah wouldn't even see me," Izzie whispered, "when she was here." "She was pretty sick, Iz" Alex replied, frowning, "and really young, and they might have just told her she was adopted." "I know," she admitted, avoiding his gaze, "and it sounds silly, and selfish, but I so wanted to meet her, to hear her voice."

"Maybe she'll want that, too, someday" he shrugged. "Then she'll know you're this rock star doctor-" "…who gives flu shot-" "-whose patients love her-" "…Alex-" "-who has an amazing husband-" "…amazing?-" "-and a million friends-" "…a million-?" "-and a crazy mother-" "…that's true-" "-who bakes awesome cookies-" "…not better than mine-" "-and grows beautiful weeds-" "…weeds!!?" "…and made this place a palace-" "…with squeaky cabinets-" "-and who thinks about her everyday-","…yeah-" "and wanted what was best for her."

"Thank you," Izzie said softly, reaching behind her and gently stroking his face as she leaned back into his arms. "I could go on," he noted, nuzzling her neck, "I haven't even mentioned the brownies, or-" "Alex" she giggled, shaking her head. "We could make a spread sheet," he pointed out. "Or send a resume?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Don't forget to put down that you can refinish a fireplace," he added, kissing her again.

"You're crazy" she observed, gazing at the ceiling. "Only about you," he teased. "I know," she said quietly, squeezing his hand again as she sighed. "She was just so sick, Alex," Izzie said glumly, "I know what that feels like. What if she thought I abandoned her, or that she got sick because-" "Iz," he broke in quietly, "she'll understand, someday. Might take a while." "I never did," she admitted. "Huh?" Alex asked, baffled.

"I used to wait for my dad, sometimes," she said softly. "I'd go to the end of our road and watch the traffic." "Iz-" he interrupted. "My mother used to tell me he'd come back for Christmas, you know." She brushed his fingers, toying with his shirt sleeve. "I believed that for a long time," she added. "I wanted it to be true so badly."

"That wasn't your fault." he protested. "But I did the same thing," she insisted, "to Hannah." "Iz," that's totally different," he objected. "How?" she demanded. "You wanted her to have a better life. You didn't just up and leave." "I took the easy way out," she interrupted, shaking her head, "just like he did."

"Didn't you say she's better off?" Alex asked. "Is she?" Izzie asked. "You were sixteen," he pointed out. "What if she was my only chance? What if she's the only child I'll ever have?" Izzie asked sadly. Alex stalled awkwardly. He was almost tempted to ask her if that would be the worst thing she could imagine, but he was pretty sure it was.

"I think she'd love you," he said finally, closing his arms more tightly around her, "if she got the chance." "You think so?" she asked, leaning back into him as he nuzzled her neck. "Yeah," he smirked. "You don't count," she giggled, sliding her hands along his arms, "you're easy, remember?" "Only with you," he promised, his lips brushing her hair.

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"Here," Alex mumbled, months later, handing her the steaming cup while juggling his change. "Hey," he scowled, as she snatched half his bagel, "you said you didn't want one." "When will you ever learn," she teased, spinning on her heel as she moved along the sidewalk, sizing up the displays lining the artists' street fair. Stopping at a booth full of colorful landscapes, she admired a vibrant autumn scene.

"Too much red," Alex noted, still chewing on his bagel as he dropped the wrapper in a nearby trash bin. Tugging his arm as they walked, she paused a few minutes later, and watched as he suspiciously eyed a collection of abstract sculptures. "They're not poker playing dogs," she teased, "but really, art has come a long way since cave paintings."

"You like these?" he snorted. "They're interesting," she said, frowning, "it's conceptual art, it's…" "Ugly?" he prodded, raising his eye brows toward the biggest piece. "I was going to say challenging," she huffed smugly, "you just don't appreciate modern art." "And you do?" Alex snickered. "I do," she insisted, swatting his arm. "And I'm still not finished decorating the dining room."

"Right," Alex snorted, "you'd put this thing-" "I might," she nodded, ignoring his eye rolling as she stopped at another booth, and saw him surveying a display of architectural prints. Uncivilized though he was, he had a definite preference for buildings and bridges and cityscapes, and hated anything too floral or watery or naturalistic. She knew he'd never simply admit, though, that he preferred charcoals and inks to pastels.

"Those were ugly," he insisted again hours later, shaking his head as he retrieved their hot dogs from the street vendor's cart. "It's neo-fusion," Izzie retorted, as they sat on a nearby bench, "there was an article about it in the paper last week." "They can call it whatever they want," he said, gnawing on his hot dog, "won't make it look any better."

"You just don't understand the idea behind it," she insisted, wiping her hands with her napkin. "Rusted heap of metal?" he smirked. "You're Fred Flintstone," Izzie muttered, shaking her head, "I seriously married Fred Flintstone." "Wilma was hot," Alex said, wiggling his eyebrows, "that bun thing she did with her hair." "You have mustard on your face," she retorted, lightly brushing it away as they walked along the pier.

An hour later, they sat under a nearby tree, watching the fireworks over the water as she shivered slightly in the evening breeze, the neon sky erupting around them. "Look at that," she sighed, gazing at brilliant greens and blues streaking across the sky, "it's magical." "Iz," he smirked, "it's barium and titanium with oxygen propellants."

"It is not," she huffed, "it's beautiful." "It's chemistry 406," he noted, almost cringing. "You have no imagination," she grumbled, leaning back into his chest as he nuzzled her neck. "I do, too," he insisted, pulling her closer, "but you always call me a pervert when I use it." "You are," she murmured, lacing her fingers through his, "and I still think they're magical," she insisted, watching as sky lit up around them.

The following morning, she slipped quietly out of their bed, brewing her coffee as she dragged in the Sunday paper. Placing her mug on her night stand, she climbed back into the bed, sure that she had at least two hours before Alex stirred. Eagerly pulling out the Arts section, she scanned the headlines, wondering if any of the artists they'd seen the day before had been interviewed. She'd read the art reviews faithfully over the past few months, and even dragged Alex to the shows in the park.

She wished, sometimes, that he'd share her interest, but she gave up on that, again, when he brought in the brunch he usually made for them on Sundays, and settled back in beside her, snatching the sports section from the newspaper, and mocking her weekly war with the crossword puzzle, and insisting that she read some juvenile comic strip, and getting crumbs all over the duvet cover she'd just cleaned.

Three days later, she woke with a jolt, escaping the grasp of a familiar dream. Entering the bathroom, she caught her reflection in the mirror, and stood ruefully, studying an image she scarcely recognized. Putting her hair up in one fanciful bun, and then another, she tried again to hide that it was too thin, and too dark, and nothing like it used to be.

"What do you think?" she asked Alex, as he wandered in ten minutes later, rooting for his toothbrush. "About what?" he asked. "My hair," she grumbled. "I like it the way you usually wear it," he shrugged. "You always say that," she sighed. "I do" he mumbled through his toothpaste. "Never mind," she muttered, as she went off to get dressed.

"I brought home some fabric samples, too" she noted the following weekend, as she rustled through her bags on the kitchen counter. "For what?" he asked, rinsing his hands and grabbing a glass. "I was thinking of a chaise, to finish off the dining room," she said. "They don't look very comfortable," he frowned, scanning the picture she handed him.

"They're not supposed to be," she said, sorting pensively through her samples, "they're decorative." "I thought you wanted a painting?" he asked. "A chaise is less expensive," she huffed, "if that's what you're worried about." "Iz –" "What?" she asked, "I just thought it'd be nice to spruce things up around here." He eyed her quizzically, raising his eyebrows. "We should think about new kitchen cabinets, too," she added, "and that old floor– " "I can replace the floor," he nodded slowly, "but new cabinets are thousands of-"

"We won't be in debt forever," she insisted, "you're an Attending now, and I just became a full partner." "And a fashion plate?" he asked, nodding toward her other bags. "How often do I buy nice clothes?" she protested. "We've been working full time for years, Alex. We should be able to do more than pay bills." "Yeah," he said, "once we get caught up." "With what?" she asked. "My loans, our medical bills, the mortgage–" he listed.

"Alex," she interrupted, rolling her eyes at the familiar litany. "I'm not saying we should go crazy. But if all we ever do is put the fun things off, who knows what might …" She stopped suddenly, her voice trailing off as she fingered the material of her new jacket, the kind she'd imagined having someday, when she wasn't stuck in the ill fitting clothes that got her laughed at on the school bus. "It's not you," he noted, walking out of the kitchen as she angrily gathered her bags.

She lay beside him fuming later that night, sure he hadn't changed a bit from the plastic surgeon wanna-be who'd dubbed her doctor model. Scooting to the edge of the bed, she roughly pulled the comforter with her, and steamed there for hours, picturing the dining room when she was finished decorating it, and wondering if she should have gotten the brown jacket instead of the red, which, really, did nothing for her hair.

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"Can I help you," a gruff voice asked him the following weekend, as Alex scanned the flooring options at Home Depot. "Nope," he said, "just looking, thanks." He could do most of the work himself, for something simple, but the ceramic tile she liked was tricky to install, and expensive, and not very durable. He shook his head again as he unfolded the crumpled picture she'd torn from the glossy real estate section of the Sunday paper, which listed more houses then he thought could possibly fit in Seattle.

Eying the price tags, he added up the cost of tool rental, materials, and taxes, his mind boggling. He'd hoped to use the first three years of his Attending's salary to get out from under his school loans, and put a serious dent in their medical bills. And it wasn't like she couldn't do math, he fumed, moving along to another aisle, where he grabbed the hinges and washers he'd come for, and a drill bit to fit the outside heating exhaust vents.

"Faucet's fixed," he muttered later that afternoon as she entered the kitchen, nodding as she put the flowers she'd just cut from her garden on the counter. "Still working on the hinges," he added, "they're a non standard size, so –" "Um-huh," Izzie muttered, as she rinsed off her scissors, ignoring him as he moved to check the heating vents upstairs.

He scanned their living room as he walked toward the stairs. The huge sectional and the plush carpeting they'd gotten soon after they bought the house had been splurges, but he loved the fireplace she'd refinished the following year, and the paint job she'd done on the trim, the year after that, and the floors he'd sanded had taken forever, but turned out better than he ever expected. Moving into the main bedroom, he popped up the heating vent, replacing the filter before the first real cold spell of the season hit.

He did the same in the next bedroom, and the third, remembering that he re-painted it light green, leaving it bright and airy, with white trim and deep pile carpeting, though it still stood empty. The wood floor boards in the hallway still squeaked, though, he noted with some satisfaction; he always found that reassuring, a warning system that someone was coming, like the kind he relied on when he was a kid.

Walking down the stairs, he ran his hand over the polished banister, remembering how excited she'd been the first time she charged up the staircase. He'd warned her the place needed a lot of work, but he'd almost come to believe, over the past few years, that maybe someday she could come to love it as much as he did, even if the kitchen was out dated, and the dining room oddly shaped. But he should have known that she'd want something better, especially after all she did to work her way out of the trailer park.

Hours later he sat silently in the darkened living room, watching a documentary on sea monsters, when she set a plate of warm brownies and a glass of milk beside him, before grabbing the remote and turning to the Travel Channel. He spied the plate suspiciously, struggling to resist as the aroma drifted around them. "Thank you," she said quietly, "for fixing the faucet."

"It wasn't you," he said carefully. "What?" she asked tiredly, wondering what wasn't her this time, her hair, her clothes, her shoes, her silence, the frustration she was struggling to contain, with just about everything. "Any of it," he added quietly, in response to her mute confusion. "I'm experimenting," she retorted, "you should try it sometime. If what you're doing isn't working, you don't just give up. You try something else."

He picked at his fingers, ignoring her angry tone. "I looked at flooring tiles today," he stammered. "We just can't afford ceramic," he added, his face reddening, "maybe slate or…" "It's not that," she said, smiling ruefully. "I thought that's what you wanted?" he asked, avoiding her gaze. "I don't know what I want," she admitted, after a long silence, "that's why I'm experimenting." "You used to know," he said. "Yeah," she laughed bitterly, "before I got sick, and changed careers, and…." She stopped suddenly, knowing the expression that was crossing his face about then. "Married me?" he asked softly.

"I love the vase, Alex" she insisted, reaching over and squeezing his hand. "It's perfect for my roses." "This year's ceramic," he mumbled awkwardly, "it's not what you wanted, but it still fits the guidelines and-" "I couldn't ask for a better anniversary present," she insisted, cutting him off. "And I love being married to you." He watched her dubiously. "You like your weather kit, right?" she asked hopefully. He nodded vigorously, a quick grin flashing across his face. "But I'm easy, remember?" he said gruffly. "Only with me," she reminded him, leaning over and kissing him softly.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "I've just been – it's been nine years already. I just thought we'd-" "Have a nicer place by now?" he asked hesitantly. "No," she said quickly. "I don't want to move," he blurted out suddenly, interrupting her thoughts so abruptly that she did a double take. "Not that we could afford to," he added wryly, "but even if we could – I like it here," he muttered, looking away as his face reddened.

"I don't want to move," she said incredulously. "You don't?" he asked quietly, his throat still running dry. "Where did you get that idea?" she demanded. "This," he mumbled, as he pulled the crumpled house ad from his pocket. "You've been looking at all those real estate magazines," he said. "For decorating ideas," she noted bluntly. "I thought you wanted like-" he stammered. "A mansion?" she teased. "A house boat? Servants' quarters?" "Not funny," he grumbled, chewing on his lower lip. "I love it here," she insisted, sliding her arms around him. "We've put so much work into it already."

"We can re-do the kitchen in a few years, you know," he mumbled, "after we-" "I know," she said quietly. "And I warned you it needed work," he reminded her. "You were trying to discourage me," she teased, leaning into his chest. "I just didn't think you'd settle for-" he protested. "I didn't," she insisted, kissing him again. She'd seen the special on Buenos Ares before, and was almost dozing in his arms an hour later, when she noticed the blanket he'd pulled around her and his lips tickling her neck. "There's a new fireplace filter in the bedroom" he teased. "Really," she smirked, "rising quickly and tugging him toward the stairs, "just what I've always wanted."

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"When did you get these?" Izzie asked the following year, chuckling as she poked through the huge box. "Last year, around Christmas" he noted sarcastically. "Of course," she teased, "in the after holiday clearance section?" "You can set them up this year," he noted, ignoring her commentary, "next to that little gingerbread house you-" "You mean my manger?" she huffed. "Surrounded by tin soldiers? Christmas is about peace, love-"

"Okay, okay" he said. "I'll put them near Santa's toyshop," she announced. "They can guard against snoopers," she added, glaring at him ominously. "I don't snoop," he objected. "That's right," she giggled, "you hate Christmas." "I do," he agreed, kissing her. "And you'll never find where I hide your toys, anyway," she added smugly. "They're not toys," he protested, "they're –"

"Dinosaurs, I know," she laughed. "As long as they stay in the swamp," she insisted. "You mean the den?" he grumbled. "Your sewing machine's in there, too, you know" he pointed out "and your knitting needles-" "I have to defend myself from the dinosaurs," she insisted. "I suppose I should just be happy you're not digging up my roses looking for fossils." "Weeds don't leave fossils," he smirked.

Months later, he wrestled a giant blue spruce into the usual corner, and watched as she eagerly hung stockings on the mantle, and invited her mother, and baked and wrapped and celebrated, and lay quietly in his arms on Christmas night, surveying the elaborate village she'd set up, with bridges and sleds and working lights, and even a post office, and, of course, the tin soldiers he'd given her for their tenth anniversary.

"I'll have to add more snow next year," she said seriously, stroking his fingers. "How about a train set around the outskirts?" Alex suggested absently, his face immediately reddening as Izzie turned toward him. "You were saying?" she teased. "Nothing," he muttered, exhaling heavily. "I knew it," she giggled, "you love Christmas." "Hate it," he grumbled, sighing deeply as she nibbled his ear. "Cheating," he accused, sighing again. "Santa's off for the rest of the night," she teased, pulling him off the sectional and down onto the floor beside the fireplace, "we can be naughty now."

He woke hours later, from a deep, dreamless sleep, sighing as he closed his arms more tightly around her. Pulling the comforter from the couch down around them, he surveyed the lights from the tree, and the candles still flickering on the mantle. As much as she loved her spring flowers, and summer breezes, and the fall leaves they raked by the gross, he knew she'd have Christmas all year around if she could.

He knew what he'd be doing next year, too, as he anticipated her village's expansion. He just rolled his eyes at all the little buildings, which she probably imagined had fireplaces like theirs. They'd never smell like her brownies, though, or fill with her excitement as she wrapped odd shaped boxes and hung stockings she knit herself, or with her laughter as she gamely defended the remote while she watched her sappy Christmas movies.

It was different in Iowa, when the rent-a-Santa's crowded the bar he grew up in by seven pm, and everyone was drunk by nine. He imagined his mother liked Christmas, though, since she saved the construction paper fir tree he made for her when he was six – even though it was crooked, and he dropped it in the snow – and the perfume he scavenged for her once, that smelled like furniture polish, though she wore it to church just the same.

Gently kissing Izzie's forehead, he caught the familiar scent of her shampoo, a strawberry concoction he always found vaguely intoxicating, unless she was working it into his own hair. He told her more than once that he couldn't exactly go to the hospital smelling like a fruit stand, but his reasoning was no match for Izzie logic. He could have worked harder to defend himself, he supposed, but their shower was very close quarters in the morning, and he could always find better things to do with his hands.

He brushed his fingers through her soft curls, fewer now then there'd been before he shaved her head, since her hair grew back darker, and straighter. She never seemed to like the new color much, and tried goops and pastes and gels on occasion to change it, until he couldn't quite tell what color it was, just that the goops were likely cancer risks, too, and smelled awful, and her hair always felt softer without them, and he never saw the point to any of it, since she should really wear a hat outside, anyway.

She stirred lazily, her warm hands sliding more closely around him, eliciting a deep sigh punctuated by a wince. A familiar wave of pleasure washed over him, as her fingers lingered gently below his ribs, along with a few too many of her brownies, and too little weight lifting despite the recent snow shoveling, and the work it took to subdue a giant blue spruce; he doubted even holding his breath would hide it at this point.

Shifting awkwardly, he was almost sure he heard a quite giggle, as she drew closer into him, eliciting another deep murmur despite his best efforts. It was cheating, what she did to him with her hands. He'd learned, over time, to resist her warm brown eyes, if only by avoiding them, but had much less power over her baking, and none to resist the skilled precision of her soft fingers, which were presently untying the stiff muscles of his back.

Sliding his hands down along her torso, his lips followed with agonizing slowness, as she tugged him closer, tangling him deeper amid her body. He lingered deliberately, a trick he'd learned long ago, after he'd been too fast, or too slow, or too rough, or too delicate – he never could quite tell which – and she pulled away, as he fumbled through the first year of their marriage, with her cancer and her beast, in a bewildering threesome.

It was his only defense from her hypnotic breathing, as his head sank into her chest; and necessary, since he still expected her to pull away, sometimes; and about as effective as her tin soldiers, since he'd been out gunned from the start, by a glimpse of her eyes, or the bounce of a curl, or the taste of her lips. But it counted as cheating, too, he imagined, that he'd wrestle a giant blue spruce into a corner, just to see her face light up like her Christmas village, and to feel her beside him, and to keep her from pulling away again.

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She woke hours later, nuzzling his hair as she surveyed the lights from her village, still faintly illuminating the flurries flashing past the bay window in the pre dawn calm. He stirred sleepily beside her, frowning when she poked him, as he burrowed back under the covers. He was hiding again, she suspected, tugging him closer as he snored softly beside her, and giggling as she pictured an elaborate train set ringing next year's display.

Sighing quietly, she gazed at the tree, shaking her head with a smirk as she spied the red, sequined night gown Robbie had given her, to complement, no doubt, the Grinch boxers she'd given Alex. She imagined it was a gift for him too - since they always got the lover's card - as if he hadn't grumbled enough early in their marriage about having to unwrap her. It'd been years, though, since she could remember wearing anything to bed, and longer still, since she could remember feeling naked beside him.

She brushed her lips lightly across his hair, as he settled into her chest, his scent still reminding her of pumpkins and apples and crisp fall evenings, though his hair held a hint of strawberries. She knew he hated when she did that – that the other surgeons raised their eyebrows, and the nurses made fun of him – but it was her only defense, in the shower, from his wandering hands. Almost laughing, she pictured his frantic efforts to towel out the worst of it, his hair standing in spiky quills like a startled porcupine.

She knew that some of the younger nurses still sized him up, though – quills or not – even though they were both on the other side of forty, and she could still recall vividly when that age seemed antique. Cancer had already taken her pretty blonde hair, and her smooth skin, and she knew it was just a matter of time before gravity came for the boobs. She wondered if he noticed already, that his head was tucked lower than it used to be, or that she had to bend a little further, to kiss him good night.

She was sure he noticed something, as his hands roamed her body with their skilled surgeon's touch, but he was still settled in where he always was – his warm breath teasing her skin – and he'd gotten used to the scars, eventually, and to her hair, and she noticed that his own softening midsection fit rather comfortably as he curled around her, and she imagined that he'd acclimate, again, as time took from her what cancer hadn't.

Later that afternoon, they watched the late football game together, as an unexpected blizzard blanketed the city, and she wondered as his arms closed around her, what he'd expected, when he said he'd be ready for anything. "You really liked your present?" she asked, watching his eyes light up before a quick smirk crossed his face to compensate. "I saw you playing with it before," she teased. "Using it," he corrected immediately.

"What?" she giggled, "I'm sure it's what all the big shot Attendings asked Santa for this year." "Iz," he groaned. "What," she demanded, "can't I be proud of you?" "Huh?" he asked. "You're a rock star," she replied, "even the new Chief told me that." "At the Christmas party?" he grumbled. "Don't worry," she laughed, "the nurses still hate you."

"Caught up on all the gossip, did you?" he asked. "Yes," she said smugly, poking him gently, "Cristina told me you're going to play Santa next year." "I'm working on it," he grumbled, leaning awkwardly away from her. "Alex," she teased, "I'm kidding." "You make me all those brownies," he pouted. "You want me to stop baking for you?" she asked dubiously. "No," he said quickly, shaking his head, wide-eyed. "Then stop being silly," she insisted, sliding her arms around him again.

"Besides," she added, "what else could I do at the party, since you wouldn't dance with me?" "Dancing's lame," he insisted, rolling his eyes. "You mean, you dance like you're lame," she corrected seriously. "You just can't keep up with me," he retorted. "Not when you're standing on my feet," she agreed quickly. "Iz-" he groaned. "And you still owe me my wedding dance," she accused.

"You threw up on my shoes after the ceremony," he reminded her. "Did I?" she teased. "And if you wanted to do any of that ballroom crap-" he added. "You make it sound so glamorous," she replied, "how could any woman resist you?" "It's a gift," he agreed. "Can I return it?" she giggled, sliding her arms closer around him as he scowled.

"I'm glad we went," she added, "it was nice to see everybody. Sometimes I miss being one of you guys." "You are one of us," he insisted. "No," she said, "you're all rock stars, and I-" "You're a rock star, too," he noted, kissing her neck. "I give flu shots and fill out health care forms," she said, rolling her eyes. "I was supposed to be a surgeon."

"I was supposed to be in plastics," he said wryly. "But you made that decision. You didn't have it taken from you." "Iz, if you wanted-" he objected. "I know," she nodded, "I could have started over. But it wasn't for me anymore. After all my surgeries, I didn't want any part of it." "Then what's the problem?" he asked. "Sometimes family practice doesn't feel like me, either," she shrugged.

"Your patients love you. You're an awesome doctor," Alex insisted flatly. "Oh," she challenged, "you know that how?" "You're…Iz," he stammered, looking away as a shy smile crossed his face. "Just Iz, huh?" she teased. "Yeah," he acknowledged cautiously. She knew that wasn't a fair question. She'd been sure, once, who she expected to be: a pretty blonde, a surgeon, a mother. Being an Iz had never been on the list.

"That all it takes, huh?" she asked, laughing as he pulled her into a tighter embrace. It was cheating on his part, but she knew that wasn't a fair question, either. She'd been sure what she expected love to be once, too: romantic, eloquent, fearless, sure to conquer all. She wondered, sometimes, why nobody had ever warned her that it'd be nothing like she expected, and that sometimes it was tempting fate, to expect anything at all.

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The letters started the following February, reminding her needlessly, that she'd hit forty, and that the odds and risks worsened with her age, and that her embryos had three years at most. She'd beaten the odds before, often enough to be a doctor, but not a surgeon, a wife, but not a mother, a semi-blonde – in certain lights – but no longer a model. She'd beaten the odds just often enough to wonder if she could beat them one more time.

"Isobel?" her mother called, pulling her attention back to the kitchen table, where she sat gazing out the window, toward the yard where she'd always envisioned a swing set. "Do you have any more sugar?" her mother asked. "Yes," Izzie said, rising quickly, "I'll refill that." "I'm glad you called," Robbie said happily, "it's always so nice to see you."

"You're always welcome, here, mom" Izzie reminded her as she rooted through a near by cabinet. "Did I tell you about Gina's daughter's wedding?" Robbie chattered. "The pictures were beautiful." "Really?" Izzie asked. "Yes," she said, "but nothing like yours. I so wish I'd seen your wedding, you and that handsome surgeon of yours-" "I know mom," Izzie said patiently, "you tell me all the time. "

"You looked like a princess, like in that storybook we used to read, remember?" Robbie asked. "It was sudden, mom, the wedding, it's… a long story." "Always are," Robbie said, chuckling as she stirred her tea. Izzie remembered the book, bought from a church rummage sale, about a prince who Robbie swore looked just like Izzie's father; her father came by sometimes, but she was sure he never looked anything like the guy in the book.

"Did you know they're finally building the rest of that new factory in the old strip mall?" Robbie continued. "Your father used to say that if only he got a job there, he'd be back in a heartbeat. Then we could settle down, move into one of those cottages along Wilshire." Izzie nodded, remembering her mother pointing them out to her from the bus, tiny white Cape Cods dotting a tree lined street, closely packed with neat front lawns and mail boxes, a few hundred yards from the freeway, a continent from the trailer park.

"Things would have been different then," Robbie mused, eagerly paging through a glossy magazine of hair styles and celebrity make-up tips. Izzie believed that once, too, about her father. But he was always a stranger, and he pulled away gruffly whenever she tried to take his hand, even when she clung, and he never brought the red bike he promised, even though she waited up all Christmas eve.

"Oh," Robbie exclaimed, holding up her magazine, "wouldn't your hair look pretty like this? Not as pretty as mine," she teased, "but pretty enough for that surgeon of yours." "Mom," Izzie protested, shaking her head. "You should come home, Isobel," Robbie added, "visit sometime. I brag about you often enough." "Mom," Izzie said, rolling her eyes. "I can't help it," Robbie shrugged, "you're my daughter."

The phrase stuck in Izzie's head for hours after her mother left, as she rattled through her kitchen cabinets, and made shopping lists, and her thoughts mutinied, insisting that she didn't have to do anything about the letters right that moment, and that he'd never understand anyway, and that it would be worse now, and that she hadn't really abandoned her own daughter, though she was being raised by strangers.

Three days later, she returned home before five, dropping onto the couch where Alex lay, watching sports news in the dimly lit living room. "You're home early," she observed, as she noticed the freshly stoked fire. "Only had two surgeries today," he muttered. "You hungry?" she asked, rising as she went to change her clothes. "Not really," he yawned. She settled for onion soup, returning a half hour later with her tea cup and newspaper in tow, and changing the channel when she noticed he was already dozing.

"Where we going now?" he mumbled, resting his head on her lap as she settled beside him. "Nicaragua," she said. "Probably not snowing there," he said, a clear reference to the tunnels he'd just dug to their driveway and front door. "You hate hot weather," Izzie replied quickly, idly brushing her fingers through his hair. "Yeah," he opened one eye lazily, "but those beaches, the-"

"If you say bikinis, I'm seriously going to strangle you," she warned, wrapping her hands playfully around his throat. "What?" he said innocently. "I'm forty," she retorted, rolling her eyes, "and in case you hadn't noticed, my bikini days ended years ago." "Their loss," he shrugged, tracing his fingers slowly along the thigh he was resting against, "don't want other guys looking at you, anyway."

"Surgical scars aren't exactly a turn on either, you know," she chuckled. "Speak for yourself" he retorted, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "Pervert," she laughed, swatting at his hand. "Prude," he grumbled, drawing closer to her and closing his eyes again. Still giggling, she pulled a nearby blanket around them as images of luxury ships and pools and pristine beaches and crystal waters paraded by.

She watched for hours, even as they started rerunning the same shows, leaning back into the couch as she glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was only a few hours until dawn; no point trying to sleep then, since she knew the dreams would come again. They'd pass with spring, she told herself, when her flowers were in bloom.

She told herself that regularly as the days lengthened, and she found herself on a warm spring dusk elbow deep in newly delivered hydrangea bushes. She'd been working for an hour or two, trying out her new gardening tools, when she noticed Alex on the porch, holding up a large green tumbler. Joining him, she eyed the wood planks he replaced the previous weekend, as she peeled off her gloves and peered reluctantly toward the cup.

"Lemonade?" she asked, almost cringing. "Iced tea," he retorted, "and the lemonade wasn't that bad." Izzie accepted the cup hesitantly, scanning the top for froth. "Nothing a quick round of insulin injections couldn't fix," she teased. "It wasn't that sweet," he growled. "Your mother liked it." "She thinks gummy bears are a vegetable," Izzie said, cautiously sipping her drink. "Not bad," she nodded, finally exhaling.

"I have many talents," he noted smugly. Leaning back into her chair, Izzie relaxed into a warm breeze, sighing. "Remember Mere's old house in the spring?" she asked suddenly. "Condoms in the cookie jar?" he asked, frowning. "Hydrangeas along the side wall," she retorted, scowling, "pervert." "Prude," he pouted, stroking her arm.

"They were always so pretty," she said. "I tried to get the white ones," he added, "but they only had those." "I love the blue," she insisted, shaking her head, "and you can't really pick, the flowers get their color according to the soil you have." "Ours is blue?" he asked, peering dubiously over the porch rail. "Something like that," she giggled.

"They're great," she said, "they go so nice with my roses." He shrugged, putting his cup down. "This year wasn't flowers, stainless steel," he corrected seriously, pointing to the shovel and the pick. "I know," she admitted, "I cheated." "You looked?" he demanded. "That's where I got the idea to restring that old guitar," she nodded, "you like it?"

"I haven't played in years," he said, "since high school." "Think you'll remember how?" she asked. "I was never very good at it," he admitted, shaking his head, "my dad used to say…" "Used to say what?" Izzie prodded. He stared at his hands, hating how he never could stop them from trembling under his father's angry glare, and how he never could hide it, either. "Said they weren't steady enough, I'd never be any good…"

"That was a long time ago," Izzie said carefully. "Yeah," he said. "And you're a surgeon now." "Yeah," he smirked. "And you can work on your manual dexterity," she added cheerfully. "Oh," he said, raising his eye brows, his hand creeping along her leg, "needs work does it?" "Alex, not on the porch," she giggled. "Worried the hydrangeas will see us?" he taunted. "The neighbors," she chuckled, tugging him up and toward the door.

"What about the iced tea?" he asked seriously. "Don't get it on my flowers," she warned, "they're already in shock from being transplanted." "Just for that, I'm never playing you a crappy love song." "I'll settle for a Christmas carol," Izzie said happily. "Christmas is months away," he pointed out. "You're right," she admitted, "what will do until then?" "You have dirty in your eyes," Alex smirked. "Mine's from gardening," Izzie giggled, "what's you're excuse?" "I need to work on my manual dexterity," he noted, chasing her up the stairs and into their bedroom, leaving her shrieking and giggling and gasping.

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"How's Hailey?" Izzie asked, waking abruptly and snapping on the lamp by her bed. "Few stitches. Cast.," Alex shrugged, toweling off his hair and crawling in beside her. "She's fine." "And Meredith?" "Freaked," he nodded, shaking his head. "Shepherd's with her. Lexi's got Elyse." "We could have taken her," she reminded him. "I told her," he nodded, "but Lexi was there already, she took her home a few hours ago." "Right," Izzie nodded, glancing at her alarm clock, and noticing it was later then she'd realized.

"Did Hailey go home?" "Tomorrow," he mumbled. "I told Mere I'd check her again in the morning before they release her." "Was she scared?" Izzie asked. "Wanted a lime green cast," he smirked, "tough kid." "How about Meredith?" "Total wreck," he replied. "You told her Hailey would be fine?"

"Uh-huh," he mumbled into his pillow. "Kid didn't need a surgeon. Any intern could've handled it." "Did you tell Mere that?" Izzie asked warily. "That she's paranoid? Pretty sure she already knows that, Iz." "No," Izzie laughed, swatting him, "that keeping her daughter over night was just a precaution?" "Told her, told Shepherd, kid was laughing when I left." "I'll call Mere tomorrow," Izzie nodded, "she'll probably still be upset." "Count on it," Alex muttered, burrowing deeper under the covers.

Izzie snapped off her lamp but lay awake for a long while, ignoring the forms in her nightstand. She promised herself she'd decide, finally, after the holidays, but the tree was already set up, and her village fully peopled, and the stockings hung – though it was still scarcely December – and as the days whizzed past, the letters still plagued her.

A few weeks later, she sat shivering slightly on the porch in the twilight, watching giant snow flakes silently blanket their front yard. "Are you staying out here all night?" Alex smirked, sitting beside her on her new porch swing. "I love it," she beamed, running a gloved hand across the metal post. "It will be perfect for the spring."

"Yeah, that was kind of the plan," he reminded her, bundling the blanket he carried around her as he pulled her into his arms. "It's like being in a snow globe," she giggled, as the glistening flakes swirled around them. "If I kiss you, and my tongue sticks, it's your fault," he grumbled. "That's okay," she laughed, "I know a lot of doctors." "Weren't you worried about the neighbors seeing us?" he reminded her. "They'll get over it," she insisted seriously, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. "You know," he said gruffly, "this means you'll have to drink my iced tea, now." "Don't remind me," she protested, as she settled back into his arms.

Two months later she wandered out onto the porch again, after waking from a familiar dream. He followed her nearly an hour later, pulling his thin jacket around him as he sat beside her on the steps. "You're going to be cold," she noted, running her hand along his sleeve, "you should go back inside." "Wasn't planning on coming out here," he muttered, "I thought you were in the kitchen." "I was," she sighed, "I just wanted some fresh air." "At this hour?" he asked, puzzled.

"Iz?" he said softly, after a long silence. She hesitated again, her stomach churning as she reached into her coat pocket, handing him a wrinkled paper, and watching warily as his face darkened. "I thought you already-" "I thought I decided, too," she whispered, the words burning in her throat. He swallowed heavily, his jaw clenching as the air left his lungs; he knew the statistics by memory.

"You'd seriously still consider this, after…Maroney said-" he sputtered. "She said this is my last chance," Izzie retorted, snatching the paper from him. "It's not like that for you. If you decide you want kids later you can always-" "Can always what?" he demanded. "Find another wife? You think I'd just-" he retorted.

"You never wanted this, did you?" she accused. "Not if it means that-" "You don't know that," she shouted, "nobody does." "You know the odds," he hissed. "Oh, like you did?" she demanded furiously. "That was different," he insisted, his face flushing as he turned away. "Right," she snorted. "What happened to being ready for anything?" she taunted, watching his eyes blaze as his head snapped up.

"I was just trying-"he protested. "I know what you're trying to do," she retorted "you never let me forget it, do you?" "This makes it pretty clear," he growled, clutching the paper tighter in his fist. "Only because that's all you ever see," she spat, "no wonder you'll never be ready." "For what?" he retorted. "For us to have kids. For me to be a mother," she insisted. "You're not taking that away from me, Alex - not Maroney, not cancer, and not you-" she spat, grabbing the paper and stalking back into the house.

She heard the car door slam, and heard him drive away. It was vintage Alex, she thought bitterly, to run at the first hint of trouble. She sat in the empty bedroom again as she re-read the crumpled form through her tears, picturing a menagerie of stuffed animals on the window sill, and an ornate white crib in the corner, and a sky painted on the ceiling, with shooting stars that glowed in the dark, perfect for a child's first wishes.

Dropping the paper beside her, she ran her trembling hands through her hair, still too thin, and across her torso, still too scarred, and fought the roiling queasiness and the raw fear, still too familiar, and was certain, only, that she couldn't do it again.

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Jolted by a sudden cry, Alex quickly picked up his patient, waving away the night nurse who rolled her eyes at him. The baby would learn soon enough, he imagined, that crying just made things worse, that it just made the bullies madder, and that you could stop it, usually, if you bit your lip and pretended to be somewhere else.

He watched the balloon dance over Matthew's crib, attached to the card reminding him that his parents loved him; he remembered his mother telling him that, that his father loved him, and deciding that it was something to hide from it as best he could.

"She thinks I'm scared of you," he whispered sternly to the baby. He'd heard that before, too, from his father, that he was a little coward – heard the taunts as his face burned red and his hands trembled and his stomach churned – until he shut the bastard up himself.

"Is he talking back?" Meredith asked, giggling as Alex's head snapped up. "What do you want, Grey?" he grumbled, setting Matthew back in his crib. "A consult?" she asked, cringing slightly. "Liar," he snorted. "So why are you here," she asked suspiciously. "Checking his vitals," he mumbled, grabbing a chart. "Is that even your patient?" she asked dubiously. "Yes," he said smugly, sitting heavily as he set the chart down.

She sat beside him, watching as he leaned his head back and ran his hands over his hair. "Izzie called," she volunteered softly. "She pissed?" he asked flatly. "Worried," Meredith corrected him. "Shouldn't you be in surgery or something," he asked. "In few minutes, actually," she replied. "Well?" he said, "shouldn't you be scrubbing?" "What you'd do?" she asked, ignoring his tone. "How do you know it was me?" he accused.

"Right," he sighed, as he saw her bemused expression, "it's always me." "We have that effect on people," she reminded him. "She didn't tell you?" he asked finally. "No," she replied, "just said you stormed off." "I don't just storm off," he grumbled, as he noticed her giggling. "We hate it when you do that, you know," she noted.

"Huh?" he asked, puzzled. "Like when Derek and I-" "McDreamy's whipped," Alex noted. "When we fight," Meredith said patiently, "he-" "Goes fishing," Alex filled in, "everyone knows that." "They do?" she asked, suddenly distracted. "You guys fight a lot," he pointed out. "Not anymore," she insisted, swatting his arm. "My point is, I know where he is." "Izzie knows where I am," he said quietly.

"Yeah," Meredith agreed, "but Derek always comes back the same day." Alex exhaled heavily, toying with his pen. "You ever not want him to?" he whispered, his eyes fixed on the floor. "No," she said pointedly. "Alex," she added, after a long silence, "she wouldn't have married you if she-" "Wasn't dying?" he said glumly. "If she didn't want you to come back," Meredith insisted. "I wouldn't have made you marry her if-"

"You didn't make me," he growled, rolling his eyes. "Actually," Meredith teased, it was the only way we could think of to get you guys out of the house. Derek said it was the best money he ever spent." "We're paying you back," he pointed out quickly. "I know," she giggled, "and you can stop, you know. We never wanted that." Alex nodded, still toying with his pen as he studied the floor in front of him.

"You're telling me to talk to her," he accused, "we don't do that." "No," she said, rising as she checked her watch, "we sulk in bars and get into trouble in on call rooms." Alex smirked, shaking his head. "We could," he nodded, his eye brows rising. "Izzie's right," Meredith teased, her eyes twinkling, "you are a pervert."

He went for a run later that afternoon, past houses like his, houses he'd never imagined actually living in someday, because he knew things never got better. He knew he'd been a fool, and that she'd never settle for any of it – an ordinary house, an ordinary husband, an empty nursery; he'd been a fool, to think that he could hold onto it, to her, no matter how tightly he clung. He'd been a fool, he knew, to ever stop running.

Pulling into the crooked driveway later that night, he noticed that the house was dark, and sat nervously on the porch steps, struggling to keep down his last meal and to force his legs to move. He had nothing to say, really, and a chill ran through him when he heard the door open, and felt his throat tighten. He cursed his trembling hands as she sat beside him, pulling her coat more tightly around her as he glanced sideways, pursing his lips.

"I need your signature," she said finally, her voice quivering in the light breeze. He eyed her warily, his stomach plummeting as the shadows played across her face, sucking all the air from his lungs. "To donate them," she added in a near whisper. "Donate?" he repeated blankly, his voice strangling in his throat as his pulse pounded in his ears.

"Well, we can't sell them," she snapped, her tone almost knocking him backwards. He stared idly at the walkway, straining to breathe, and to ignore the heavy numbness in his limbs. It was from his earlier run, he insisted irrationally, listening to her exhale as she groped for words, fiddling with her coat buttons and pulling a tissue from her pocket.

"I can't destroy them," she whispered, "and I can't… go through that again," she added bitterly, between gasps, "and I feel like I'm abandoning them, and I know you think they're just popsicles, but I need you to sign the form." "Iz…" he stammered softly. "I get it, okay," she sobbed, "you don't want kids, and I can't… I can't do this alone."

He felt his head spinning though they were only a few feet from the ground, and he couldn't bring himself to look at her. "You're sure?" he whispered. "No," she gasped, "but I can't, I can't…" He waited nearly a lifetime, as his stomach churned and the only blood he could feel flooded his face, grateful, at least, for the darkness. "Can't what?" he whispered finally.

"I can't do it again," she repeated tearfully, after another long silence. "I can't even look at myself," she rambled, "I see the mirror, and the scars are still there, everyday, like it was yesterday," she muttered, struggling to breathe. "Then I think about Hannah, how I abandoned her, and I can't look at myself for that either."

"You didn't abandon her," he repeated softly. "That's easy for you to say," she snapped suddenly, "you wanted your father to leave." "What?" he asked, bewildered again. "I wanted mine to come back, Alex," she said, almost in a whisper, "I always wanted us to be a family." "Maybe you were better off that he didn't?" he asked quietly.

"Maybe," she snorted, "but I'll never know. And Hannah will never know that I wanted that with her." "You could explain," he volunteered, "maybe, when she's ready." "There is no explanation," she insisted, shaking her head. "Some things you can't fix." He sat beside her silently, still staring at the walkway as she brushed away her tears.

"I found the ring," she said softly, looking away, after a very long silence. "I wasn't snooping," she added, "I was just checking the list and-" "Now?" he asked incredulously. "We've fought around our anniversary before," she pointed out, wiping her eyes, "that's never stopped us." "I left," he noted quietly, wincing as he recalled Mere's words. "You always come back," she shrugged casually. "Like dandruff," she added sarcastically.

"You ruined the surprise," he grumbled. "I was surprised, trust me," she acknowledged.

He shrugged again, studying his hands. "I got it last month," he said quietly. "It's not a diamond," he stammered, his face reddening, "but I figured forty eight years was a long time to wait for a real ring." "I still like the first one," she said, her voice still quavering. "It's plastic," he reminded her, "and I ate the gum ball." "You eat too much sugar," she commented, dabbing her eyes again. "It's nothing special," he noted, "it's just-"

"I love the pearl," she said softly, "it's so old fashioned, so-" "If you say romantic, I'm going to hurl," he threatened. "Don't be silly," she chided, shaking her head, "you never do anything romantic." "Thank you," he said, exhaling heavily. "I was going to say that it's practical, and durable, and affordable-" "Iz-" he groaned, "I bet you even ate the oyster," she teased. "They're an aphrodisiac," he pointed out. "Yeah, no" she retorted, "that's the last thing you need." "Prude," he muttered.

She sat staring at her rose bushes, still not quite looking at him. "We should be better at this by now," she said wryly. "We?" he asked, raising his eye brows skeptically. "Okay, you," she laughed nervously. "I made you cookies," she said. "Chocolate chip?" he asked hopefully. "Oatmeal," she corrected sharply. "With raisins," she added, taking his hand, "and cup cakes." "I thought you said I eat too much sugar?" he noted. "It's not my fault you have no self-control," she observed. "Must be all those oysters I eat," he muttered, watching shyly as she laughed, glancing back in his direction.

"I'm not sure," she stammered finally, lacing her fingers between his. "One minute I decide to donate them, the next minute, I just can't give up." Alex nodded, staring at her fingers, woven amid his. It'd been twelve years already, and he was no closer to seeing how he'd ever be ready for her to untangle them. "I'll do what you want," he said finally, his stomach plummeting.

"What if I want to try again?" she asked cautiously. "Then we'll see what happens," he shrugged, the words struggling to escape. "But you still don't think it's worth the risk," she said softly. He closed her hand more tightly in his, the words fluttering between them in the light breeze. "No," he whispered, nearly a lifetime later. "I never will."

"At least you're honest," she said finally, stroking his hand. "You'd be a good dad, you know" she noted, several minutes later. He eyed her suspiciously. "You always come home," she pointed out. "That's all it takes, huh?" he smirked. "That's a lot of it, I think," she said softly. "Being like dandruff?" he teased. "Just like dandruff," she agreed, rising from the porch step and tugging him with her. "Did you really eat the oyster?" she asked suddenly, turning back to him. He nodded wryly, rolling his eyes. "Pervert," she insisted, shaking her head as she squeezed his hand.


End file.
